Birdsong
by Shadowcatxx
Summary: AU. Al and Matt are kidnapped and taken to The Aviary. The Doctor tells them that they are Magi—those who can wield magick—but only if they can "bond" with a Magnus. Arthur and Francis are Magnus—those who control Magi—and this is their last chance. If they can't "bond" with these young, defiant boys then they're likely to be killed. Of course, the "bonding" could kill them too...
1. Chapter One

**DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya**

**BIRDSONG**

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Please excuse my taking liberties with some character names &amp; relationships.

CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance):

CANADA — Matthew Jones-Williams

AMERICA — Alfred Jones-Williams

FRANCE — Francis Bonnefoi

ENGLAND — Arthur Kirkland

PRUSSIA — Gilbert Beilschmidt

SPAIN — Antonio Fernàndez Carriedo

ROMANO — Lovino Vargas

ITALY — Feliciano Vargas

GERMANY — Ludwig Beilschmidt

HUNGARY — Elizabeta Hédervàry

AUSTRIA — Roderich Edelstein

NORWAY — Bjørn Thomassen

DENMARK — Mikkel Densen

CHINA — Wang Yao

JAPAN — Honda Kiku

SWEDEN — Berwald Oxenstierna

FINLAND — Tino Väinämöinen

LITHUANIA — Toris Laurinaitis

POLAND — Feliks Lukasiewicz

NETHERLANDS — Lars van den Berg

BELGIUM — Laura van den Berg

TURKEY — Sadik Adnan

GREECE — Heracles Karpusi

ESTONIA — Eduard von Bock

LATVIA — Raivis Galante

RUSSIA — Ivan Braginsky

ICELAND — Sigurður Thomassen

HONG KONG — Li Xiao Chun

* * *

**ONE**

**MATTHEW**

**AN UNKNOWN LOCATION**

Matt awoke with violent start. Churning water crashed against the porthole as the boat rocked, and bullets of rain lashed loudly on the metallic rooftop. He shifted to avoid a leak. He could hear sailors' voices and heavy boots stomping on the weathered deck outside, and he could smell fish and brine, stale cigarettes, and rusted metal. Wearily he blinked and surveyed the dark cargo-hold, which imprisoned he and Al. Al's wheat-blonde head was lying in Matt's lap, fast-asleep. Matt wanted to touch him to calm his own anxiety; to prove that the last twenty-four hours hadn't been a dream, a nightmare, but he couldn't. His hands—white, willowy hands they called _dangerous_—were shackled in irons behind his back.

"Al," he whispered, but Al's drug-induced sleep was deep.

_I'm scared_. Matt felt small in the cargo-hold. He had been scared since last week, since he and Al had been attacked on the streets. If he closed his eyes, he could still see the thief's lifeless face...

* * *

**NORTH AMERICA**

**ONE WEEK AGO**

The thief grabbed Matt and held a knife to his throat. It was late, and the boys should not have been alone on the grey streets. It was dangerous. The overpopulated city had fallen onto hard-times, the worst of times: war and recession feeding into depression. The poverty-stricken grey streets were cold, starving, and desperate. The thief was wild-eyed and malnourished. Matt felt his hot breath, his teeth rotting. The man locked eyes with Al, who stared back, paralysed with adolescent fear.

"No, please don't!" he panicked.

The thief grinned. "You're both high-borns, worth a fortune in the Black Trade," he growled. "Finding buyers for you will be so fucking easy, such pretty faces." His fingers ghosted over Matt's cheek; Matt shivered. Then the thief gestured to Al. "If you don't want to see his blood"—he jostled Matt—"then you'll come quietly and you _won't_ scream."

Matt's heart palpitated. He felt his body go cold. _Please don't hurt us. Please_,_ I don't want to die_!

"Run, Al!" he gasped, a tear rolling down his cheek (freezing on his cheek). "_Run_!"

Matt wasn't expecting the thief to lunge, but that's what he did. He must have been afraid that Al would take Matt's advice. The man took a long-legged step and reached for Al, and instinctively Matt grabbed his temples. The thief yelled in outrage, then pain. Matt dug his fingernails in, clawing at him, trying to force him off. The knife cut into Matt's collarbone and he cried-out, but did not let go. Then Al tackled the thief to the ground. A searing-hot electrical surge shocked Matt as he crawled free. The thief screamed as Al punched him, leaving not bruises but scorches. In his fury, Al yelled: "Stupid! Fucking! Bastard!" with every punch until Matt pulled him off. Al flinched and only then did Matt realize his shaking hands were frosted, so cold they burned. He looked into Al's scared blue eyes as his brother's hands crackled with electricity. Then, simultaneously, they looked at the thief who was lying face-down.

"He's dead," whispered Matt, staring from his icy hands to the corpse. "_We killed him_."

* * *

**PRESENT**

Matt struggled futilely against the restrictive shackles. The iron sucked the power from his body, neutralizing it. Matt didn't know what it was or how he had obtained such extraordinary abilities, but he did know it was _very _dangerous. _I'm dangerous_, he thought sadly. _That's why they came for us_—forced entry into the family's rich house and stole the boys, drugged them, and stuffed them into the cargo-hold of a ship—_to take us away. But to where_?

Matt feared the city jails. He didn't want to be locked up. He didn't want to be labeled as a murderer and left to the abuse of criminals twice his age. He was still young and tender-hearted, not a fighter at his core. The thief had been right in guessing them high-born: spoiled, pampered, well-fed children from a privileged family. They had never tasted a day of hardship in all their fifteen years. Even now, Matt could smell the scented-soap in his curls and feel the soft, starched cleanliness of his fine clothes. _Is this my punishment_, he wondered absently, _for living in luxury while everyone else starved_? On the streets people had always called out to he and Al (whenever they were permitted to leave the estate—escorted, of course), crying for charity and throwing themselves upon the mercy of the two naive boys. They always looked so sad and forlorn, so innocent in their suffering, but Matt wasn't stupid. _They hated us. Without even knowing us_,_ they hated us_ _because we had what they wanted_: _money_,_ status_,_ and high-born blood_. _And we didn't work for it_. _We didn't earn it. We didn't have to suffer to survive_. Every glare, every cruel-spirited whisper stung. So much so that he and Al had left the safety of the estate late one night and journeyed into the city's poorhouse, pockets jingling with riches they intended to donate.

_It was foolish_, Matt thought in retrospect. _And now_,_ because of our stupidity_, _a man is dead and we'll never see home again._

* * *

Several hours expired before a duo of armoured guards opened a narrow trapdoor. One descended the creaking stairs and grabbed Al's forearm, shaking him awake. Al gasped and reflexively fought the restraint, and then panicked when he found his hands shackled uselessly. To compensate, he spit a string of the ripest, vilest curses Matt had ever heard.

"Stop that!" snapped the guard, throwing his fist into Al's jaw to silence him. The force of the blow sent the boy backwards into Matt. "You brats have no idea who you're dealing with," he threatened. "If you don't want to rot in jail for murder, in a padded-fucking-cell, then you'll come quietly."

Apprehensively, Matt kept close to Al as the guards led them above-deck. It was foggy, but Matt could see the harbour's cutting shadow and a vast mountain-range rising like a behemoth. They were manhandled onto a long dock and then marched up several stone steps before they reached a gondola suspended by a cable that disappeared up into the mist. They sat inside as the operator eased the gondola into a climb, sandwiched between the two guardsmen, who both carried rifles. No. Rifle ammunition didn't glow blue. Matt swallowed nervously and pressed closer to Al's bigger body; Al, who was glaring maliciously at the operator sitting opposite him. It took a long time because the gondola's pace was slow and lumbering, but finally they reached the mountain's summit. They were taken to a great fortress fenced in iron. The sigil on the gates looked like a redesigned Celtic knot. _More like a spider's web_, Matt thought. Into the grounds they were marched, shackles jangling. It was dark. Leafless branches reached out like gnarled fingers. Al tensed. He secretly disliked spooks (was afraid of it), and the towering fortress resembled the quintessential picture of a haunted house. However, it's roof was caged like an aviary's dome.

A tall, spider-thin figure wearing a mask was waiting for them inside. He called himself simply the Doctor.

"Who are you? What do you want with us?" Al demanded bravely. "We haven't—" _done anything wrong_. But that wasn't true. They had killed a man. "What is this place?" he asked instead.

"It doesn't have a name because it doesn't officially exist, but we call it The Aviary," said the Doctor calmly. "I am its Keeper, and what I want with you, Alfred, is to cultivate your unique _talent_. Having done that, I'll sell you both to the highest bidder, and, frankly, couldn't care less what they do with you after that. In this place, I train weapons. I we take those like yourselves and transform them into spies, assassins, soldiers, and bodyguards—whatever the client desires; whatever your talents permit. These are very unpredictable times and people are very afraid. Rich, powerful people. The world is in upheaval, in a state of transition, and there are those who are willing to pay anything to ensure their position in the emerging world. People like you are invaluable to this purpose.

"You are what it called Magi," he said, stating a fact with no more pomp than if he had said: You are human. "Magi have the ability to wield the world's natural energy. To interact with it through the five senses and to weaponize its power. In layman's terms, you have the ability to perform magic. However, you cannot do it alone. It would be too dangerous, too unstable. Magic requires a great deal of study and discipline and no small amount of control, which is why every Magi needs a Magnus."

That said, he snapped his finger abrasively and two blonde men stepped forward.

They were both young—twenty, twenty-one—and attractive. The first man looked aristocratic, with long ash-blonde curls pulled back into a blue silk ribbon like eighteenth-century nobility. He had an artistic face, long-fingered hands, and blue eyes that rivaled sapphires for beauty. His movements were swift and graceful, and his expression was nonchalant as he approached. Upon seeing the twins, however, a grin tugged at his shapely lips. The second man was several inches shorter than his companion, thin as a willow-bough, and equally as sharp. He had wheat-blonde hair and a fey-like face that was pale and freckled. His features were too mature to be considered effeminate, yet there was a delicateness about him that existed in stark contrast to the glaring suspicion in his fierce Lincoln-green eyes. He didn't look strong, but nor would Matt have intentionally picked a fight with him. Both men looked proud and self-confident and—durable. Unlike the blue-eyed man, the green-eyed man didn't smile, and Matt honestly didn't know which of the two greetings he preferred.

"Francis and Arthur," the Doctor introduced them, "meet your two new Magi, Alfred and Matthew." Gently, he pushed the twins forward. Matt stumbled; Al growled. "I'll leave them both to your... expertise," he smiled, though his tone was not suggestive of a compliment. "You both know the drill, after all.

"This is your last chance," he added quietly, speaking deliberately to the Magnus. "For your sakes, I sincerely hope you can bond."

* * *

**ALFRED**

Al screamed and fought when the guards pried he and Matt apart. "No! Mattie! Let go of him! Let go of my brother, you fuckers!" He growled in angry protest, throwing his body from side-to-side as he kicked out, hands still shackled. "Mattie! Please, don't hurt him!" he begged the blue-eyed Frenchman, who took Matt's bicep in escort. "He's not—"

"_That's enough_!" snapped the green-eyed Englishman, grabbing Al's shoulder. "Stop making a bloody scene, you're embarrassing yourself. You're fifteen, old enough to know better," he chastised. "But apparently still too young to care," he deadpanned when Al lashed-out. Sighing, he dismissed the guards, who, trusting the Magnus' judgement, happily retired. (Al had given one a black-eye and another a split-lip. "He's _your_ problem now," they said in retreat.)

Arthur half-dragged Al from the entrance hall. Al kept his eyes on Francis and Matt, who were close behind. They stepped into an old elevator, which groaned as it climbed. The air was thick with tension and nobody spoke. Not until FLOOR 7 glowed yellow and the doors reopened. Francis said: "_Bonne chance_," as Arthur dragged Al out.

"Mattie!" Al yelled. He lunged for the doors, but Arthur grabbed his ear and tugged it hard in a reprimanding way. Al flinched.

"Bloody-hell, you've got a lot of energy," Arthur complained. "Calm down. I'm not _trying _to hurt you."

"As if I'd believe that!" Al spat. "You're working for that freaky Doctor, kidnapping people—"

"Do you think I came here of my own volition?" Arthur snapped back. "Do you think I wasn't kidnapped just like you? Except that I didn't have a twin-brother to comfort me. I was left completely alone. Rest assured that it was fucking terrifying, you spoiled little..." He closed his mouth; pursed his lips. Al watched him inhale as he tried to curb his temper. "Look, I know that you're feeling... overwhelmed," Arthur said delicately, "but this is your life now, Alfred. The sooner you accept it, the sooner you'll feel better. I'm not your enemy, I'm your Magnus—"

"I don't even know what that means!"

"—it's my job to look after you," Arthur continued, as if Al hadn't spoken. "If you'll let me, I'll help you. But I won't tolerate childish tantrums, understand?" He stopped suddenly in front of a door and turned the knob. "This is my apartment, your home now," he said, trying to be accommodating.

It was a boxy two-room suite: a bedroom and kitchenette-lounge, with a washroom on the left. There was a window, but the blinds were closed. It was a tidy, near-empty room favouring functionality over aesthetics. It looked like a student's flat. "I've lived here for a long time," Arthur continued as Al surveyed the apartment. "If you have any questions, please ask me. That's what I'm here for. I'll be your mentor as well as your master—Magnus," he quickly corrected. Al eyed him suspiciously. "I know you don't want to believe me," Arthur said, "but this arrangement is for both of our benefit."

Feigning confidence, Arthur took a key from his trouser pocket and circled behind Al. A lock clicked and Al soon felt the shackles fall from his wrists. He felt an immediate surge of energy coarse through his body, as if he had been suffocating and could once again breathe. The Englishman took a step back, holding the shackles as he eyed his charge warily. "I hope that we can get along—?"

Al felt electricity prick his eager fingertips. In reply, he said: "Fuck you."

* * *

**MATTHEW**

This is my apartment," said Francis. He stepped tentatively inside and spread his arms in welcome. "It isn't lavish, but it's comfortable. I've tried to make it as pleasant as possible. It's your home now, so... please don't feel like a stranger. I've waited for a long time to have a roommate, well... a Magi," he confessed as Matt studied the small, two-room apartment. It was lacking in furniture, but not style. It was suave—mature, Matt thought, and then felt rather childish for thinking so. "I really hope that we're a good fit," said Francis, flexing his long fingers; over-eager or anxious, Matt didn't know. "You must be afraid. You're so young. I felt the same when they first brought me here. I didn't know why they wanted me or where I was being taken. They didn't tell me anything at all. At least I wasn't alone. I had a friend, my foster-brother. But now, of course, I wish they hadn't taken him... _Pardon_, I'm rambling," he realized. "It's just... I know how you must be feeling and, well... I don't want you to be afraid of me. I'll admit, the Birdcage—that's what we call the Aviary—isn't a very nice place to be, but I'll take care of you if you let me."

_Like a helpless_ _new pet_, Matt thought, feeling belittled.

In good-faith, Francis extended his hand. Matt cocked a pale-blonde eyebrow in disbelief. The Frenchman looked momentarily crestfallen until he remembered Matt's shackles. "_Oh_, _pardon_!" Chuckling absentmindedly—nervously?—he fished for the key, which he inserted into the lock. The irons released and Matt inadvertently gasped. "_Merde_!" Francis cursed in shock. "They locked these much too tightly," he said as Matt massaged his chafed wrists. "Here, let me—"

Matt flinched and retreated, avoiding Francis. _No_, _don't touch me_! He glared at the Frenchman, feeling cold: ice frosted his skin in threat. _Don't come any closer_,_ I don't want your help_._ I want to find Al._

_ I want to go home_.

* * *

**ARTHUR**

Arthur managed to force Al into an unflattering pair of yellow rubber-gloves. He wouldn't put the boy back in shackles unless it was absolutely necessary. _Not unless he tries to attack me again_. He glared at the blue-eyed boy, who glared defiantly back. Al was sitting on the settee; Arthur was standing by the window. He would have liked to increase the distance between he and the unpredictable Magi, but the apartment's size didn't let him._ God_,_ I hate this place_, Arthur thought, not for the first time. It had been seven years since the Doctor had ordered his capture. He had spent the first two years stuck with Francis, and the last five intermittently alone as he waited for a Magi to bond—over and over and over again. The space hadn't seemed like such an inconvenience until Al stepped inside. Now, the suite felt too small.

Arthur had undergone years of intense physical and mental training in preparation for this day, and endured test after grueling test, only to fail in compatibility every time, losing his potential partners to other Magnus.

"This is your last chance," the Doctor had said. Arthur didn't know what would happen if he failed again. The Doctor was a cryptic man, but impatient, and he didn't like fruitless investments. Not since Ivan had there been such difficulty in matching a Magnus to a Magi. The Doctor had brought in several boys to test with the Russian, but Ivan had failed to bond with anyone and his contract as a Magnus had been designated: TERMINATED. Arthur didn't know what that meant exactly, but nobody had seen the Russian since. And now, after seven years of trial-and-error, he and Francis faced the same fate. If they failed to bond with these boys, they might finally find out what happened to Ivan.

Arthur would do anything to ensure that did not happen. _No matter how much this spoiled_,_ foul-mouthed North American boy dislikes me_,_ I have to make this work_!

"Are you hungry?" he asked politely. It was no short journey from North America (or, what had become of it) to the Birdcage, and Arthur doubted that the boy had been fed. His suspicion was confirmed seconds later when, as Al opened his mouth to protest, a loud growl filled the silence. "Right," said Arthur, moving into the kitchenette. "I don't usually keep food in the apartment, but I do have scones." As he jellied a scone, he caught his reflection in the toaster-oven: blonde hair standing on-end. Embarrassed, he tried to smooth it, but residual electricity still hung in the room; static-cling made his clothes feel fuzzy. A slight crackle sounded as he touched his head, pricking his fingers. "Here," he said to Al, who was watching him suspiciously.

Al took the saucer of jellied scones without thanks. Instead, he said: "If you don't keep food in here, where do you eat? Is there a cafeteria or something?"

"Sort of. There's a dining-hall," said Arthur, sitting down on the settee arm. "You can think of the Birdcage—that's what we call this place—as a boarding-school if you like. Presently, there are twenty-three other _students_, most of whom have already been bonded. Everyone is twenty-five or younger, except Yao. Nobody knows how old he really is. The youngest is... well, now it's you and your brother. The Birdcage has twelve floors; we're on the seventh. Francis' room where your brother lives is on the ninth. Everyone's apartments are located from floors six to eleven. The roof is forbidden because it's not monitored. The dining-hall and the common-room are on the fifth-floor. The archives and classrooms—if you want to call them that—are on the fourth-floor. The third-floor is the ground-floor, which is where the gymnasium is. And the second-floor is located underground, where the bathhouse is. There's also a sports field outside, and a pond with a dock. The gardens are rather lovely if you like horticulture."

Al listened quietly, chewing pastry. "What's on the first-floor? Is that the basement?"

Arthur shrugged. "I don't know, nobody does. Only the Doctor knows where the entrance is."

Al swallowed. "So, if this is a school and I'm a freshman then you're a senior, right?"

"I'm twenty-years-old and I've lived here for seven years, if that makes me a senior then yes. Those of us who aren't bonded usually act as mentors to the fresh recruits. I suppose in that regard, I am rather like a school prefect," he said thoughtfully.

Al cocked an eyebrow. "Sure, whatever," he said, chewing open-mouthed. "So, I'm a magician or something? That's why I can do this?" He snapped his fingers, which produced a spark. "And you're, like, what? My spirit guide?"

"I'm hoping to be your Magnus," Arthur corrected. "It's not very scientific, but there's something in my DNA that can channel and control what lurks in yours. I'm the lightning-rod and you're the lightning itself. Does that make sense? Magnus can't cast their own _spells_ and Magi can't control their own energy." In indication, Arthur pointed to the static making his hair stand on-end. "Magi have the ability to interact with all of the world's energy, but most have a specialty. Yours seems to be electricity. It comes naturally to you. That's what the gloves are for, just until we're bonded," he promised. "Then I'll be able to control the flow of energy."

Al's eyes narrowed. "When you say _control_, does that mean _cut-off_? Are you going to short-circuit my magic? When you say _bonded_, what does that mean?"

"Before a Magnus and Magi can be linked, they must first undergo"—Arthur was careful not to say _survive_—"what's called the Bonding Ceremony. It's like a test. For example, if you and I are compatible with each other than an invisible, intangible link will form between us. If not then our magic will reject each other and we'll move on to a new partner."

_If we're lucky_.

"So, you've done this before? But that guy, the Doctor, said that this was your last chance."

Arthur pursed his lips. Al was more perceptive than he would have guessed. "Uh, yes," he replied guardedly. "I've been through the Bonding Ceremony before, six times in fact." _And fortunately I survived every time._ "It sounds like a lot, and it is. Once is often too much. In past years, a potential Magnus-Magi pairing were not tested unless the Doctor was positive it would work, but since the Black Trade has flourished he's become careless: too greedy. Now he wants quantity over quality. But it's not like we'll be completely unprepared for the bonding, Alfred. Every potential pair has to go through intensive training beforehand. It's a lot of teamwork drills and trust exercises. It's also why the Doctor forces us to live together." He gestured to the tiny bedroom and one bed. "Trust between partners is absolutely essential for a bond to form. It's a very... intimate thing. You need to trust me enough to let me physically manipulate you, and I need to trust that you won't kill me."

"Oh," said Al anticlimactically. He held the empty saucer in his hands and stared at the crumbs.

Arthur wanted to comfort Al's anxiety. It was a lot of information absorb (and accept) after all, but he didn't know how. In the seven years that he had been jailed in the Birdcage, he had been partnered with six people—Francis had been partnered with eight—but he hadn't been able to bond with any of them, and the final two had died. _It's the Doctor's fault_._ He keeps partnering me with Magi I'm not compatible with_, he thought resentfully. But maybe that wasn't entirely true. Maybe it was simply because Magi didn't trust him. Arthur could grudgingly admit that he wasn't the warmest of people, nor was he easy to live with. He knew this, and it's why he had tried so hard to befriend the last Magi, but it had ended badly.

_I don't know what else to do. I've tried to be a good mentor_._ I've tried to be friendly_,_ and kind_, _and helpful_, _but nothing works_! _Maybe I should just be honest_,_ just be myself. That'll scare him_, he thought in self-pity.

"So," said Al quietly. "If this works and we end up bonded, does that mean we're stuck together forever?"

Arthur didn't want to answer. He bit his lip and hesitantly said: "Yes. If we're bonded, then it's for life. We'll remain connected no matter how far apart we are, or how long we go without seeing each other." (Though, Arthur had heard rumours that separated pairs suffered horribly because of it.) "We'll be connected until we die. But," he added; Alfred had a right to know, "if we undergo the Bonding Ceremony and it fails, it's likely to kill us. I'm sorry."

Al took a deep breath. His cheeks flushed and his cornflower-blue eyes sparkled, shapely lips pursed. He was a healthy-looking boy, tall and broad-shouldered and strong. But he was only fifteen: a child, Arthur realized. _And I've just told him that he's likely to die_. _Oh_,_ bloody-hell._

When Al looked up at Arthur, however, all he said was: "These scones taste like shit."

* * *

**FRANCIS**

Francis stared at the young boy, who was shivering violently, but not from the cold. He was curled-up beneath a heavy blanket on the settee, staring absently at the floor, his arms crossed. He was a rather attractive boy: pale-blonde curls falling softly against flawless winter-white skin. He was tall with a willowy figure and soft features, but his long-lashed violet eyes looked sad. _He looks so fragile_, _like a snowflake_, Francis thought, _but deceptively so_. The boy possessed incredible power. Earlier, Francis felt the temperature drop at an alarming rate. Even now, he wore his coat and scarf and breathed into his hands to warm them.

_Mathieu has a very cold disposition_, he thought._ But of course he does right now_,_ he's scared_.

Francis wanted to comfort the boy, physically or otherwise, but not only did Matt refuse his touch, he hadn't spoken a single word. At least Al had yelled and lashed-out at Arthur. Francis didn't know how to approach this silent, standoffish boy. Matt simply ignored everything Francis said or did unless the Frenchman tried to touch him.

_If I get too close_,_ I'm liable to get frostbite_.

At first, Francis had been sympathetic. Now he was just getting frustrated. He tried again:

"Mathieu," he said, his breath frosting in front of him, "I realize that you're upset, and you have every right to be, but if you don't take better care of yourself then you're going to get sick. Please let me clean your injury"—Matt's collarbone was smeared with frosted blood and his wrists were chafed raw—"or at least let me get you some antiseptic so that you can do it yourself. I know that you feel abandoned and I'm sorry, I really am. This is a terrible situation to find oneself in, believe me, I understand," he emphasized, searching the kitchenette for medicine. He returned with a bowl, cloth-bandages, and antiseptic spray, which he placed on the coffee-table in front of Matt. "But you're beginning to worry me," he admitted. "You haven't spoken a word. Are you feeling alright? I mean physically, of course. Are you sick? Tired? Hungry, perhaps? Please tell me so I can help." Cautiously, he knelt down and looked at Matt from a less threatening position. "I'm trying really hard to be an accommodating host. Why won't you let me?"

When Matt glanced at him, Francis showed him a perfectly honest smile.

"I'm sorry," the boy whispered.

"Oh, so you _can_ speak! That's a relief," Francis said; half-joking, half-serious. He watched a timid smile curl Matt's lips, but it didn't touch his violet eyes.

As Matt took to doctoring himself, Francis continued to monologue (he disliked silence):

"It'll be such a relief when we're bonded. I won't miss this awful cold. It's not hard to guess what your magic specialty is though, is it? Oh, I know it's not your fault, you can't control it. Don't worry, it'll be the first thing we learn together. Magnus become connected to their Magi's magic," he explained, watching Matt gently dab at his collarbone. "It's possible that we'll become connected in other ways, too: physically and emotionally. It's not common, but some bonded pairs can even feel what their partner is feeling, like joy, grief, pain, pleasure..." He stopped, then coughed to clear his throat. "Anyway, I've been waiting seven years for a Magi and you're my last chance, so I really want us to be friends. Is that alright?"

Matt stopped and stared hesitantly up at the earnest Frenchman, but Francis couldn't read his expression. It was void of emotion, somewhat unnerving. Softly, Matt said: "I'm sorry, but all I want is to go home."

Francis felt disappointment seize him. He wouldn't have felt more rejected if Matt had slapped him.

"Well, Mathieu," he licked his lips, avoiding eye-contact, "in the weeks to come, I sincerely hope you change your mind." _Because I'm not letting you go_,_ Mathieu. You're my very last chance to become a true Magnus_._ I won't end up like Ivan_. Whatever the Russian's fate, Francis was sure it was ugly. _I wish you would cooperate with me_,_ but if I have to force you_, _seduce you_, _then I will. _It had worked before—eight times, in fact. But he hadn't been magically compatible with any of the others. Looking now at Matt, however, he could feel that something was different. _This boy is exceptionally powerful_. _This is who I'm meant to be with_.

Considerately, he retreated into the bedroom, giving Matt space. _If you want to play hard-to-get_,_ that's fine. I'm not afraid of a challenge. You'll need me eventually_,_ and when that day comes I'll be waiting for you with open arms_._ I'll be the best damn partner you've ever had._ It benefited them both, after all. The Doctor would never release Matt, and he would never find a better partner than Francis (in Francis' thinking). _It's for your own good_, he thought, catching a glimpse of Matt. The blanket slipped off his shoulders and pooled on the floor, revealing a very frightened, shivering boy. _Like it or not_,_ we're stuck together_, _darling._ _But don't worry. I know how this game works_:_ you're mine to protect_,_ Mathieu. And I will protect you_,_ I promise._

_I'm not going to die in this cage_,_ and neither are you._


	2. Chapter Two

**DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya**

**BIRDSONG**

* * *

**TWO**

**ARTHUR**

How is your new little bird?" Arthur asked.

The Magnus had inadvertently gotten into the habit of calling the Magi _birds_ because of Gilbert. He called them _birdies_ because of the Birdcage. (And because he couldn't be bothered to remember their names. So few of them stayed—survived—long enough to warrant it.)

Francis cast an inconspicuous glance over-the-shoulder, and said: "He's very unresponsive. And yours?"

"He hates me," Arthur replied. They talked quietly. Al and Matt were walking several paces behind them. Al's lips were flapping quickly, complaining to Matt about his horrible night; about how Arthur had made him sleep on the settee, which was too short for his height. _He slept there voluntarily_, Arthur thought defensively. The North American had refused to sleep beside the Englishman, even when invited. Instead, he had sat down on the settee and crossed his arms rather dramatically, declaring that even the floor would be preferable to sleeping beside Arthur. Angrily, Arthur had left him there.

"He hates you? I admire his good taste," Francis teased, but his heart wasn't in it. The insult had no bite. He yawned loudly. "I let him sleep in the bed." He indicated Matt with a head-bob. "I slept on the settee and now my neck is killing me." He rubbed it in self-pity. "Massage it for me, Angleterre? Oh, come on. You've done it before."

"Sod-off," Arthur snapped, but his tone lacked malice, too. Both of them were distracted by the young North Americans.

Al had been scowling since Arthur had met him. He had slept fitfully and awoke in a foul mood. (He was not, Arthur thought, a morning-person.) However, the instant the boy had been reunited with his twin he had become an entirely different person. His body relaxed and his expression softened into a handsome smile. In relief, Al had pulled Matt into a hug, and gushed: "Oh, Mattie! I was so worried!" Matt had clutched Al, looking lost. Arthur had yet to hear the boy speak. According to Francis he _did_ speak, but it was seldom. Even now, glancing behind him, Arthur could see Al chattering quietly to Matt, expecting no verbal response.

Francis followed Arthur's gaze. "Does he look pale to you?" he asked, referring to Matt. "I'm a little worried. He hasn't eaten anything, and it's been at least two days. He must be starving. And he was injured when he got here. But he won't let me near him, not even to help," he confided, silently asking Arthur's advice.

The Englishman shrugged. He didn't know what to tell Francis, so he reported his own experience instead:

"Alfred ate everything in my apartment. This morning I found him eating peanut-butter with a spoon." He frowned in disgust. "And he's still hungry! It's only natural, I suppose. He tried to electrocute me last night, that's a lot of energy to expend."

"That's what worries me," said Francis, biting his knuckle. "I'm afraid Mathieu might faint."

Subtly, Arthur cast a backwards glance. Al's twin _was_ pale. _But I think that's his natural complexion._ Unlike Al, who was a very vibrant individual—he had rich colouring: bronze skin flushed with health—Matt looked like glass. He was an attractive boy, but colourless. To Arthur, he looked tired. "Just keep a close eye on him and make sure that he eats today," he advised Francis. "He wouldn't intentionally starve himself... I don't think."

They stopped in front of the dining-hall and waited for the boys to catch up. Al narrowed his eyes at the two Magnus and habitually shifted closer to Matt. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, like members of the Queen's Guard. Arthur respected Al's loyalty, thinking him rather like a dog. _He's like a golden retriever_. _Maybe I'll teach him to play fetch_, he chuckled to himself. Al glared at him. _Maybe not_. Fortunately, Arthur was saved from any caddish remark when Al's stomach growled and the boy blushed. Arthur rolled his eyes. _He's got a dog's appetite_, _that's for sure_.

Needlessly, he said: "This is the dining-hall."

* * *

**ALFRED**

The dining-hall was a cafeteria-like space with long tables and benches. It was brightly lit and crowded with people, who all stopped and stared at them as Al and Matt entered. Eyes of every colour turned curiously to look at them and Al felt suddenly self-conscious, as if he was on display in a shop window. It was unnerving.

"Hey look, new recruits!"

"Oh, Arthur and Francis have new little birds—again."

"You've got my sympathies, kids. Want some advice? Save yourself the trouble and just jump off the roof."

"But stop by my room first, yeah?"

"Hey! Don't be a lecher, they're just young. Look now, you're scaring them."

"I'd be more scared of bonding with the Hundred Years War over there."

"Alright, sod-off you lot!" Arthur snapped, shielding Al. "Don't pay attention to anything this prats say. This way." He led the foursome to a table beside the windows, where he and Francis sat down habitually. Al's backside had barely touched the bench, however, when a red-eyed man slid over, hip-to-hip beside Matt.

Arthur said: "Gilbert—"

"Hello, little birdies. I'm Gilbert, lone Magnus," he said in introduction. Then to Al: "What's with the rubber gloves?" Al blushed and drew down his shirtsleeves to hide the gloves, but Gilbert's attention had already moved on. "You've come a long way, haven't you? You're North Americans, I can tell. You're new-blood Magi. You haven't got the old-blood—the _inbred blood_—of Eurasia. Oh, yes. I can tell," he repeated, smiling wolfishly at Matt.

Al shifted. "Uh, yeah. I'm Alfred and that's Matt." He gestured to Matt, whose shoulders arched defensively, squeezed between Gilbert and Francis on the bench.

Gilbert's wolfish grin grew hungrily, showing teeth.

Arthur said: "Okay, that's enough, Kraut. Now shove-off, you're crowding them." He brandished a fork like a rapier. "Don't you have anyone else to annoy?"

Gilbert exhaled melodramatically. He looked from Arthur to Francis, who merely shrugged benignly. "Fine," he grumbled in mock-hurt, and stood like a scolded child. "You two are like an old married couple. Good luck with the grandparents, birdies."

Al frowned, watching Gilbert's loping retreat.

"I'll go get us breakfast," Arthur announced, and then left, following the blunt-tongued German into a queue.

"He just means that Arthur and I have been stuck together for a long time," Francis explained to Matt, who hadn't asked. Regardless, the Frenchman continued:

"Arthur and I were brought here at the same time. My foster-brother, Antonio, and I came together; Arthur came alone. It was seven years ago. They usually keep new recruits together. I would've roomed with Antonio, but he was partnered with a Magi almost immediately. That's Antonio there in the queue ahead of Arthur." He pointed to a handsome Spaniard, who was trying to coax a very pretty Italian boy with an appeasing smile. "His Magi is Lovino. It took them a really long time to bond, almost two years. To this day they hold that record. Lovino and his brother, Feliciano," he pointed to a jaunty, gold-eyed boy who was chatting happily to a stern-faced blonde, "were the youngest to ever come here. Lovino was ten, Feliciano was nine. But even though they've been here for so long, their magic is still unstable. They're not, uh... the most studious of Magi." Francis smiled indulgently. "Feliciano's partner is Ludwig, Gilbert's younger brother. They were brought here two years ago. Ludwig was immediately partnered with Feliciano. The poor boy"—he nodded to Feliciano—"had already been partnered with so many different people that it was a relief when he and Ludwig bonded so easily. I was Feliciano's first partner, but the bonding failed," he said vaguely.

Al thought he saw a shadow of guilt cross Francis' face, but he didn't comment. Arthur had already admitted how dangerous the Bonding Ceremony was. _And they've both been through it several times_, he thought in accusation. He had no doubt that Francis' guilt was justified. _I won't let you take my brother_. He narrowed his eyes defensively. _I won't let you endanger Matt_.

"Gilbert was first partnered with Elizabeta, but they failed to bond," Francis continued, ignoring the tension. "She's the lovely brunette standing with Roderich, the bespectacled man. Gilbert hasn't been able to bond yet. I think he was sorry to lose Eliza, but she and Roderich work really well together. They were actually able to choreograph her magic. She can manipulate sound vibrations. After Eliza, they tried to partner Gilbert with Tino, but it failed even worse. Those North-born boys are _so_ stubborn. Oh, that's Bjørn," he pointed to a pale, slight-figured man in example. "He's a bit of a prodigy. His magic is really powerful and he mastered it at thirteen. He can shift the earth's tectonic plates, causing tremors and earthquakes. I've seen him cause rock-slides and avalanches, and I heard that he can even move glaciers. It's very frightening," he added casually. "I'm sure that he could bring down this whole facility if Mikkel wanted him to. Bjørn is a genius at magic, but his Magnus, Mikkel, is kind of an idiot. He likes to play jokes and skip training." Francis rolled his eyes. "But they work well together. I guess it's because they've been bonded for so long. They're deadly in a sparring-match; they've never been defeated. I would say that they're the most talented team if it weren't for Yao and Kiku." Subtly, Francis pointed to two East Asians who had just walked in. "They're not physically the most powerful, but they're both clever. They study harder and train longer than anyone else. I don't exactly know how old Yao is. Rumour has it he was brought here with the very first group of Magnus, which is why he knows more about magic than anyone else. Kiku's talents reside in manipulating air currents. It's probably the hardest element to master because air is the least tangible element. A Magi has to be extremely disciplined and focused in order to wield air, as does the Magnus to control it. But I've seen them jump off the roof and surf on a windy day, riding the air currents." Francis smiled at the awe on Al and Matt's faces.

"Let's see, who am I forgetting?" He leant back. "That's Tino over there with his Magnus, Berwald. Tino has yet to show an affinity for a specialty, but Berwald is patient with him—though, to be honest, that Swede scares the heck out of me. The two beside them are Toris and Feliks." Francis shook his head. "Feliks is... well, he's a flighty boy who's too unfocused to find his specialty. He worries his Magnus terribly. They're relatively new though. They've only been here for a few months. The big, blonde man in the corner is Lars. He and his sister, Laura, are lone Magnus." He pointed to a pretty, bright-eyed blonde who was snorting in laughter.

"I think that's everyone who's present. You'll meet Eduard and Raivis later. Raivis was feverish after the last sparring-match, so he's on bed-rest. And Sadik and Heracles are in solitary confinement."

Before Al could ask about _solitary confinement_, Arthur returned with breakfast.

"Are you gossiping?" he asked Francis, distributing trays.

"Me? Never!" Francis gasped, winking at Matt. "I was just telling them a little about their new housemates."

"Right," said Arthur skeptically. "They'll probably know everyone's measurements by the time you're finished babbling. No doubt he's told you about everyone's specialties? Honestly," he added, buttering toast, "I can't speak for you, Matthew, but I've already seen Alfred display more power at fifteen than most can conjure at twenty-five: power that no untrained Magi should be able to produce. It really is amazing," he said, attempting flattery. "It might be _new-blood_, as Gilbert thinks, or it might just be that you're both naturally talented." Francis nodded in agreement. "I know that you think it's dangerous, and it is, but it's also a gift. Most of them—everyone except Bjørn, in fact—had to study and train for years to get to where you two are now."

Al exchanged a wary glance with Matt. "What does that mean?" he asked.

"It means," said Arthur seriously, "that you two have the potential to become the most powerful Magi here."

* * *

**MATTHEW**

Aren't you hungry, Mathieu?" asked Francis.

Matt had shifted the food around on his plate, but had not eaten a single bite. He shook his head in refusal.

"You really should eat something to regain your strength," Francis persisted. "It doesn't have to be a lot, just a few bites will do. Don't you like it? If not then let's go back to my—_our_—apartment and I'll make you something else, whatever you want. I'm an excellent chef."

"No, thank-you."

Breakfast consisted of eggs, sausages, black beans, toast, and jelly-filled pastries with fresh fruit. Matt lifted a ripe grape to his lips, then lowered it. Just watching Al eat, shoving egg yolk into his mouth, was enough to rid Matt of his appetite. Arthur chastised Al for his poor table-manners, while Gilbert, who had returned, sucked the grease from a black sausage. He laughed at Ludwig, who had also joined them, dragged over by Feliciano. The Italian had wanted to welcome them to the Birdcage, even if it was not the nicest place to be. He seemed friendly, but Matt didn't feel like making friends. Despite his agreeable and nonthreatening persona, making friends was not easy for him; not when Al overshadowed him. He had always been rather shy of strangers and Al, who (usually) loved new people, always took the lead. Matt's friends were Al's friends, though neither of them had had many friends back in North America. Their high social status had made it difficult to maintain friendships, which were all more like political alliances anyway. Instead, the twins had each other. It had always just been the two of them. And if Francis, this self-confident Magnus, thought to win Matt over with charm, then he would be very disappointed. Matt had Al. He was happy with just Al. He didn't need anyone else.

"Germany is really brave and strong," Feliciano was saying. He patted Ludwig's arm, smiling happily. "He's teaching me to be strong, too!"

Ludwig sighed in exasperation, but didn't dislodge Feliciano. He merely shrugged when Gilbert whispered to him, snickering. Ignorant to the exchange, Feliciano carried on:

"I hope you like it here, Al and Matt. Let's all be friends, okay? This place is horrible, but nicer with friends."

Matt wanted to reciprocate. Feliciano seemed so genuinely open-hearted, but he felt sick. The sight and scent of food was making him nauseous. The closeness of everyone was making him feel claustrophobic, and their voices all mixed together grated on his eardrums. He felt overly sensitive and lightheaded, completely sapped of strength. But it wasn't until Francis suddenly grabbed his bicep and lifted him up that Matt truly realized just how weak he was. He couldn't shake the Frenchman off and nearly collapsed when he tried. He tried to protest, but Francis ignored it and guided him quickly from the dining-hall, apologizing over-the-shoulder to the others. Seconds later, Al followed them out with Arthur in pursuit.

"What's going on? What's wrong?" Al worried.

"Nothing, I'm f-fine—"

Matt's legs buckled. He crashed into Francis, who caught him. Al and Arthur looked shocked, but Francis did not. In fact, he looked as if he had been expecting a failure of motor skills on Matt's part. The boy pushed against him, trying to stand, but he felt suddenly dizzy. Without invitation, Francis scooped Matt into his arms and carried him to the elevator, parrying Al's fervent questions as he did. By the time they reached their apartment, Matt's breathing was laboured and he felt uncomfortably hot despite the frost on his skin. As they entered, a wave of nausea overwhelmed him and he gagged. "_Let go_!" he gasped, shoving Francis, then stumbled into the washroom. His stomach lurched and he continued to gag, choking on bile and phlegm because his stomach was empty. It was painful, and his whole body trembled in reply. He felt so dizzy now, so exhausted. His throat felt raw and hot, but his lips were ice-cold. He was vaguely aware of someone's hands on his shoulders, holding him upright. But it wasn't Al. Al's voice was shouting from the lounge:

"Don't tell me what to do! Let me see my brother!" he demanded.

"Just relax, he'll be alright. This is perfectly normal, Alfred—"

Matt fell onto the cool floor-tiles, which felt good. He wished the coldness would permeate deeper than his skin to cool his insides, which felt blue-flame hot. Too soon, he was lifted and taken into Francis' bed. He remembered the mattress as he sunk into it, crowded with pillows, and the sheet's lily-soft scent as it was pulled up. He wanted to protest: _No_,_ it's too hot_, but speaking was too much effort. His eyelids fluttered and then closed. A hand touched his cheek and forehead, gauging his temperature. In French, a voice said:

"_It's alright._ _You're going to be okay_, _chéri_. _I'm here._"

Then Matt blacked-out.

* * *

**FRANCIS**

Francis returned to the lounge, sighing deeply. He had known there was something wrong with Matt and he shouldn't have waited so long before acting. The boy had looked ill since last night. _That's not just his natural complexion_, he dismissed Arthur's excuse. Matt had slept fitfully, waking several times in the night (if he had slept at all). Francis had thought it was nightmares. He, himself, had suffered nightmares upon being brought to the Birdcage. But he rebuked himself for not doing something useful sooner. _I should have made him eat something_._ I should have kept him in bed instead of taking him downstairs_. He had promised to take care of Matt, after all. _So far I'm failing._

"Is he alright?" asked Arthur, who was sitting on the settee. Al was pacing, but stopped when he saw Francis.

"Yes, he'll be just fine. There's no need for concern. This is completely normal, Alfred, I promise." He smiled at Al, who looked rather pale himself, now. "You and Mathieu were already weak when you arrived here last night. It was partly because of maltreatment and partly because of the iron shackles you wore, which are designed to suppress magic. And you both lashed-out with an incredible force of energy. That's why you were so hungry this morning. You were probably hungry all night, weren't you? I should have made Mathieu eat something sooner, but I didn't. That's my fault," he admitted. "In all honesty, I'm surprised that either of you have lasted this long before getting ill. The first time you performed magic, were you physically sick at all?"

Al frowned. "No. Just really freaked out."

"_Bloody-hell_," whispered Arthur in amazement.

Francis said: "Most Magi get sick after performing magic for the first time, and some remain sick until their bodies have adapted to the change. Sometimes, if they're weak, their bodies can't adapt and they die. That's not going to happen to Mathieu," he quickly added. Al's pupils had shrunk in fear. "He's very much like you, Alfred. He's strong. Taking him downstairs was my mistake. I should have been expecting this."

"You were," Arthur said when Al slipped into the bedroom. He stood and faced the disconcerted Frenchman. "His own brother couldn't tell something was wrong. Though, Alfred does seem rather self-involved," he allowed. "But you recognized that Matthew was unwell and you saved him from fainting in the dining-hall where everyone would've ridiculed him and made a fuss."

"It's happened to everyone—except Bjørn," Francis noted. "I don't know what that man is made of, but I'm inclined to believe it's inhuman. Everyone else has been sick at least half-a-dozen times."

"It doesn't mean they wouldn't have teased him. Fainting at breakfast doesn't make the best first-impression, but Matthew doesn't have to worry about that because of you, frog-eater."

"You should take Alfred back to your apartment," Francis advised, shifting the topic. "If one's been taken ill, the other won't be far behind. Even if he is as stubborn as Alfred."

Arthur agreed. He left with Al, leaving Francis alone in silence. He paced back-and-forth for a minute before deciding to enter the bedroom. The boy was unconscious, after all, what harm could looking at him do? Matt was an extraordinary Magi. Francis had no doubt that he would recover quickly, but he still ought to stay vigilant for signs of malady just in case. He sat down on the edge of the bed and lifted a hand to Matt's forehead, which was ice-cold. His lips looked as if they had been stained by blueberries, like frostbite, but his sickly-pallor was otherwise leeched of colour. Having frozen the apartment last night, the boy's body was now trying to expel all of the residual energy like a disease. If his body adapted to his awakened magic, then the sickness should only be a one-time occurrence. If not—

Francis studied the boy's sleeping face. He was pale, yet exceptionally fair. The slope of his neck was elegant; the angle of his bowed head and curls was soft; the artistry of his frosty fingers, which grabbed weakly at the pillow, made Francis want to reach out and touch them. Gently, he pulled the sheet up over Matt's shoulders, covering him almost entirely. Matt was shivering violently; Francis could feel the tremors as he tucked the blanket beneath his chin. _It's alright_, he thought, letting his fingers was the closest he had ever been to Matt without him flinching. It made the Magnus feel unexpectedly tender. _You're going to be just fine_,_ Mathieu. I'm here._ Softly, he grazed the boy's icy cheek. _I'm not going to let anything bad happen to you_. _Not now_;_ not ever. You're mine now_,_ darling. Mine to protect. And I will. I'll do a better job_,_ I promise._

"Sleep well, _chéri_."

* * *

**ARTHUR**

_This is my punishment_, Arthur thought, listening uneasily to Al gag and cough and vomit. _I shouldn't have let him eat so much_.

Al had been shut in the washroom for over an hour. The door didn't have a lock, but he refused to let Arthur inside, so Arthur had been left to wait and worry after the health of his pigheaded Magi, anxiously tapping his finger against the windowsill. Finally, when Al quieted, Arthur got up and walked to the door. _Has he fainted_? he wondered. Cautiously he knocked, then pushed open the door and peeked inside. "Alfred, are you—_bloody-hell_!"

Al was curled-up on his side hugging his stomach, cheek pressed against the floor-tiles. He looked like death-warmed-over. His skin, which only hours ago had glowed with health, was pale and clammy and covered in beads of cold sweat. He was shivering and his lips were parched. He squeezed his feverish eyes tightly shut in pain. "No, don't touch me!" he snapped weakly, his brow furrowed. "Get out, just go..." Clumsily, he pulled himself to his knees and vomited into the toilet, coughing-up phlegm.

"Alfred, let me help you." Arthur reached out, but Al flinched. In a show of self-sufficiency, the boy stood up and walked—_swayed_ was more accurate—into the lounge and sat down heavily upon the settee. He pinched his lips together and then swallowed what must have been a mouthful bile. "Stubborn brat," Arthur muttered, following him. Louder, he said: "You're very unwell, Alfred. You're going to faint. It happens to everyone, there's no shame in it. Just let me help you—"

In reply, Al curled-up on the settee with his back to Arthur, shivering like a victim of hypothermia.

"Don't be daft. You'll sleep in the bedroom in a proper bed so that you can rest. Hullo? Are you even listening to me?" Arthur exhaled sharply in annoyance. "You can't ignore me forever, Alfred. You can't be asleep already—" He poked Al's shoulder, but the boy didn't move. He had blacked-out. "Oh, bloody-fucking-hell," Arthur cursed in defeat. He waited until he was certain that Al wouldn't wake and then scooped the boy into his arms and carried him into the bedroom. Well, he half-dragged him rather clumsily—Al was heavy and Arthur was no physically strong. The boy was feverish and muttering incoherently. _Fever-dreams_, Arthur knew. He piled blankets on top of Al and tucked him in, then, as a precaution, collected a bowl from the kitchenette in case Al needed to vomit.

"It really is a pity that you're such a disagreeable boy," he said aloud as he wiped sweat from Al's face with a cloth. "You have many good qualities: you're strong-willed, confident, loyal, and—" _quite attractive_. "You're damnably stubborn, but kind." Arthur had initially thought that only Matt could coax kindness from Al, but the blue-eyed boy had been friendly to Feliciano when introduced. _I guess it's just me he hates then_, the Englishman thought dejectedly.

Suddenly, Al shifted. His fever-bright blue eyes gazed up at Arthur, and deliriously he said: "Matt... Where's Matt?"

"Safe," said Arthur. "You need to stop worrying about your brother and sleep now, Alfred. I'll stay here with you, I won't leave. I'll take care of you, I promise." The words flowed naturally. Arthur barely had time to register what he was saying before they poured out. But whether it was his words or his tone, it seemed to sooth Al's fears. The boy sighed and closed his eyes in contentment. Quietly, he said:

"You're like my very own knight, like King Arthur." He chuckled, half-asleep. "I always liked fairytales..."


	3. Chapter Three

**DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya**

**BIRDSONG**

* * *

**THREE**

**MATTHEW**

Matt dreamt in black-and-white: frostbite-black and snow-white. He stood in a circle of ice crystals, jutting like wicked spears. Overhead, the wind howled and hailstones rained down from the cloudless sky. Anyone who tried to get near him froze stiff, becoming a bloodless ice-sculpture leeched of colour, devoid of shape. Matt was surrounded by lifeless sculptures baring the faces of everyone he knew: his parents, the guards, the household staff. Even the thief who had threatened he and Al. Then there was Al, himself, yelling to Matt as he drew closer. The wind sounded like a torrent. Matt screamed until his throat was raw, trying desperately to warn his twin: _Don't come any closer_! _Just run away_!_ I don't want to hurt you_,_ Al_! But he had no voice. He screamed until he tasted blood in his mouth, but he couldn't make a sound. _Don't touch me_! _Just leave me alone_!

_I'm dangerous_!_ I'm a monster_!_ I'll kill you_!_ I don't want to kill you_! _Make it stop_! he cried, tears freezing in his eyelashes. _Just kill me_!_ Just make it stop_! _Somebody please—_

_ Help me._

Matt's eyes flew open and he awoke suddenly. His breath materialized in front of him as he gasped and his skin felt stiff. He touched his cheek, his hand shaking, and felt frozen tears. _Just a nightmare_, he thought, relaxing as he recognized the Frenchman's bedroom. Everything was covered in a layer of snow—it was snowing from the ceiling, snowflakes floating gently—but nothing else was amiss. There were no crystals or ice-sculptures and nothing had been destroyed. Matt glanced at the clock-radio on the bedside-table and was surprised to learn that three days had passed since he had fallen ill. He was much healthier, now. He could feel it in his bones. He was hungry, as if he hadn't eaten in a month, but otherwise he felt fine.

_I've been asleep for three days_, he thought numbly. _I hope that Al's alright. And where is..._

That's when he saw Francis. The Frenchman was sitting in an armchair beside the bed with his head resting on his folded arms. He was asleep, covered in a layer of frost. He was wearing a long winter coat with the hood pulled up, a scarf, and thick gloves. Matt might have found the sight funny if he hadn't felt so guilty and scared. Francis was barely breathing and he wasn't shivering at all, which was a bad sign. Despite the many layers he wore, his body was slowly freezing to death. Matt could sense it.

_How do I make it stop_? he panicked. He felt small in the winter wonderland that he had accidentally created. Like Yen Sid in _The Sorcerer's Apprentice_ he held up his hands, and cried: "_Stop_!" but nothing happened.

The worse he felt, the harder it snowed.

"Calm down. I've just got to calm down," he coached himself. He inhaled deeply and then exhaled slowly.

Nothing.

Francis' breathing was laboured. His lips were going blue. Matt reached out and brushed the snow off of him. The cold didn't bother him at all. In fact, he felt refreshed by it. But the temperature was dangerously low for others, and Matt didn't know how long Francis had been asleep. "Please wake up," he begged, shaking Francis. "C'mon, wake up!" Suddenly, Matt's nightmare came back to him. "No." He shook his head. "I won't let that happen."

He crawled out of bed and felt Francis' pale cheek, which was hypothermic. "C'mon," he grunted, lifting the unconscious Frenchman into the bed, trading places with him. "You've got to get warmed up." He stripped off Francis' coat and tucked him in, pulling the blankets over him. Then he searched and found a hot-water bottle, which he filled with difficulty because the pipes kept freezing. He returned to the bedroom and crawled into the bed beside Francis, pressing the hot-water bottle to his chest. Then, feeling suddenly shy, Matt hugged the Magnus close to his own body. "Please don't die like this," Matt whispered, rubbing Francis' back to stimulate blood-flow. "Please don't make me a murderer again."

So focused on Francis, Matt didn't realize that it had stopped snowing.

* * *

**ALFRED**

Alfred awoke to a high-pitched scream. He jolted in bed, as if he had been electrocuted, blue eyes wide and fearful. He sucked in his breath when he realized that every appliance in the bedroom—lamps, power-outlets, clock-radio—was flickering madly, sparking with electricity. It frightened him, knowing that he was the cause. He could feel the energy heating his veins, fueling him like a battery. His bedraggled blonde hair stuck up and the blankets on top of him felt fuzzy, pricking his fingertips. Everything seemed to be reacting to the rhythm of his pounding heartbeat.

"Calm down, just calm down," he repeated, trying to regulate his breathing. He couldn't remember what he had been dreaming about, but it had left him feeling uneasy. A headache was brewing. "Stop," he said. He clutched his temples, squeezed his eyes shut, and shouted: "JUST STOP!"

A powerful surge of electricity exploded and everything blew-out: light-bulbs shattered, outlets smoked, and the clock-radio went dead. A power-outage—everything went silent. The only light poured in from the window. It was moonlight, indicating the late hour, which shone on something—some_one_—on the floor.

"Oh, shit!" Al threw back the blankets and leapt out of bed. He fell to his knees on the floor beside Arthur's unconscious body. "Hey, you okay? Hey! C'mon, wake up! Are you okay?" Al shook him, but Arthur was limp. His eyes were rolled back in his head, his mouth slightly ajar. "Shit, shit, shit!" Al cursed, leaning down. He pressed his hand to Arthur's lips, but the Englishman wasn't breathing. He pressed his ear to Arthur's chest, but his heart wasn't beating. _Oh God_,_ I electrocuted him_! _I stopped his heart_!

Al whipped his head from left-to-right in panic. He wanted to call for help, but he knew that it wouldn't come fast enough to save the Englishman. It left him completely alone. Al had never been good in high-stress situations. His imagination was too active, jumping to conclusions. He never knew what to do.

"You can't die, you stupid son-of-a-bitch!" he yelled. "I can't have killed you! I don't even know how to use my magic..."

_My magic_!_ That's what stopped his heart_,_ that's what will start it again_!

Inhaling deeply, Al placed his hands over Arthur's heart like a paramedic. He focused hard. He could feel the electricity pulling him in several directions, wanting to spread. It was hard to channel, but Al used Arthur's heart as a target and forced a jolt of electricity into the Magnus' body. At first nothing happened. Arthur's body jumped and then went lifeless. Al tried again, more forcefully. Once, twice, thrice before he felt the Englishman's heart beat beneath his hands. Seconds later, Arthur took a shallow breath and his eyelids flickered. Alive.

Al leant back against the bed and exhaled in relief. "I can't do this," he whispered, licking his lips. His hands, steady and reliable before, were trembling now. He looked down at Arthur's freckled face and swallowed. "I can't do this, not alone. I'm too dangerous. I need help. I don't want anyone else to die because of me."

* * *

You blacked-out the whole facility?" said Matt in shock. Then he relaxed. "Oh good, I thought that maybe I had frozen the cables or something. I'm glad it's you and not me."

"Yeah, about that," said Al, shivering. "Could you maybe turn-up the heat or something? I've been freezing my balls off since I stepped out of the stairwell. The whole ninth-floor feels like a fridge." He breathed into his hands.

"I tried to make it stop, but," Matt shrugged sheepishly, "I don't know how. The neighbours must hate me."

"Yeah," Al agreed, dancing on the spot, "I fucking would. Anyway, is Francis here? I need his advice about something magic-related."

"Err... yes, he's here. But why don't you just ask Arthur?"

"Because he's sort of, technically, kind of unconscious... and it might be my fault..."

Matt's eyes widened. Then his gaze shifted guiltily. "Oh, well... Francis can't help you right now on account of him also being sort of unconscious." He slapped a hand over his eyes, and confessed: "I gave him hypothermia! It was an accident, of course. I was sleeping, and when I woke up—"

"—you had nearly killed him? Oh good, we're on the same page then," Al finished companionably. He sighed and glanced down the dark, deserted hallway. "Maybe your neighbours can help us? Here." He gave Matt a flashlight.

Together they slipped into the corridor and walked quietly until they reached the neighbour's door. They had a fervent, whispered argument about who would knock before Al rapped his fist lightly and then pushed Matt forward to do the talking. A minute passed. Then two. Al was about to knock again when the door opened.

"Yes? What do you want?" asked a soft, sleep-heavy voice. When the door opened, it revealed the Chinaman whom Francis had called Yao. He was shorter and slighter than the twins, and he stood with his skinny arms crossed over a floor-length robe. His long, ink-black hair hung loose over his narrow shoulders and his head cocked as he eyed the newcomers skeptically. "If you have nothing to say, I am going back to bed."

He started to close the door, but Al grabbed it. "No, wait!" The Chinaman scowled at him. "We're, uh... new here and we need your help."

"Then ask your own Magnus. Goodnight." Yao tried to close the door, but Al was too strong.

"Please!" said Matt. "I accidentally gave Francis hypothermia and now he's unconscious and won't wake up. I froze the whole apartment, and—"

"That was _you_?" Kiku was standing behind Yao, hugging a blanket around himself. He looked bewildered, as if he couldn't believe this fifteen-year-old boy was responsible. "That is very impressive," he said politely, "but if you do not mind, could you please make it stop? It is very cold in here." He shivered unhappily.

Matt opened his mouth to answer, but Al said: "He can't. That's why we need your help, because Francis has hypothermia and Arthur is... well, I electrocuted him and he's unconscious, too. Yeah, yeah, it's my fault the power's out!" He sighed deeply. "Francis said that you know more about magic than anyone else." He looked beseechingly at Yao. "So, will you please help us?"

Yao looked between them, no longer annoyed. Rather, he looked curious. "You two did this without either of your Magnus?" The boys nodded. Yao glanced over-the-shoulder at Kiku and said something in bewildered Chinese. "Okay. Kiku, will you get me my coat, please?" He slipped into it. It looked silly over his sleeping robe, but neither boy commented. "I will go to Francis' room. Kiku, you go to Arthur's room. I want you to teach, uh—?"

"Alfred," Al inserted.

"Teach Alfred the meditative steps I taught you, the breathing exercises. Do you remember?"

"Yes," said Kiku sleepily. "Come with me, Alfred. Tell me exactly what it is you did to Arthur," he said as they entered the corridor. His soft voice sounded like wind in the emptiness. He was even shorter than Yao by a few inches, and beautifully delicate. He clutched the blanket around himself with slight fingers, bowing his black-haired head. But his eyes—almond brown eyes—were clever and focused as he listened to Al explain. "Okay," he nodded, stepping onto the seventh-floor. "It sounds like your magic was unstable because you were ill at the time. It's very common. And you were scared when you awoke, which is why you attacked. A Magi's magic is, first and foremost, a defensive mutation. It will try to protect us from any danger, whatever our brains perceive as a threat. In this case, your subconscious was dreaming so vividly that you instinctively attacked. You have heard of people sleepwalking, yes? It's the same concept, except far more dangerous. That is why Magi need to learn to contain their magic."

"I thought that's what Magnus were for?" Al asked. "It's their job to control it, isn't it?"

"_Control_ is not a good word," Kiku dismissed. "Magnus channel and guide magic. It's not that they cut-off a Magi's abilities. It's that a bonded Magnus can always feel the magic. They are always aware of it, sometimes more so than the Magi. It's the Magnus' job to stabilize the flow of energy, but it's the Magi who must constantly contain that power, otherwise he loses control. I do not know if Arthur has already told you, but magic is a rather temperamental and intimate thing. It reacts to the Magi's emotions."

They entered the apartment and Al led Kiku to Arthur's bedside. The Japanese man examined his condition before confirming his health. "He will be alright. His breathing is normal," he said, fingertips touching Arthur's chest. "I can wake him if you want, but I think it is better if he sleeps. His body is exhausted."

"How can you tell?" Al asked, looking down at Arthur's peaceful face. He cocked his head.

"Observation," said Kiku vaguely. "He has not slept for, uh... three days. He has been stressed, very worried about something. Or some_one_. Come here, Alfred." He retreated into the lounge. "I am going to show you some basic breathing exercises that you can implement the next time you feel unstable. Please sit down."

Wordlessly, Al obeyed.

* * *

**MATTHEW**

Francis will be fine. He might have a head-cold, but nothing serious," said Yao, removing his hand from Francis' face. He folded his forearms into his long sleeves and looked at Matt. "He came close to death, but I think you know that." Silently, Matt nodded. "He would have died if you had not cared for him," he added, trying to soften the accusation. "He is lucky that his Magi knows how to doctor for hypothermia. You are not unintelligent, just untrained."

Again, Matt nodded. "Thank-you," he said softly, head bowed.

He flinched when Yao took his chin and lifted his head. "You are afraid," he said, eyeing Matt critically. Matt swallowed, trying to avoid eye-contact. Yao said sternly: "Do not look down at the floor, look at me. I am not scary, am I? Fear is the most potent of emotions and attracts magic like a beacon, but it makes it exceptionally hard to control. If you do not learn how to manage your fears and anxieties, then you will end up hurting your Magnus again," he said, matter-of-fact. "There is much instability in you, Matthew, which stems from doubt. That is not good. If you lack self-confidence then the magic will not respect you. It is alive, like every living thing in this world," he explained, speaking in terms Matt didn't understand. Finally, Yao released him. "You just need to relax. Your chakras are too unbalanced."

"I've been sick for three days—"

"No, that is not why. Come here," Yao said, nodding to the lounge. "I am going to teach you how to meditate to calm yourself and better manage your emotions, your fears. It is not hard, you just need to focus."

* * *

Yao left at sunrise. He was a patient teacher, but a perfectionist who was unafraid to tell Matt he was doing it wrong. He had a strong, confident personality and seemed to know exactly whom he was. "Give me your hands," he said in a kind, yet commanding tone. Matt got the feeling that the Chinaman had used this technique many times before. "You are too tense, Matthew," he said, squeezing the pressure points in both of Matt's hands. His fingers were a fluid mix of deftness and strength. "Relax, and do not forget to breath. That is better.

"You will be okay now," he said in goodbye. Matt's nerves had calmed considerably—he was exhausted—and the whole ninth-floor started to thaw. "Stay with Francis. A Magi should never leave his Magnus. He is responsible for his Magnus just as much as the reverse. It is a partnership." Then Yao left.

_A partnership_, Matt thought, looking down at Francis. The colour had begun to return to his handsome face, cheeks rosy in the cold. He seemed like a pleasant enough person, friendly and self-confident in work and play, but he was not as good an actor as he attempted to be. There was something desperate that lived behind his pretty blue eyes; something selfish that Matt didn't trust. _He's a kind person_,_ but he needs me_._ He doesn't _want_ me._ Matt wouldn't let himself be fooled into thinking otherwise. His childhood had given him lots of practice at unmasking insincerity. He had been a rich high-born who was used to false smiles and shallow compliments. People had always loved what he and Al _could_ be, but never what they actually were.

"I'm sorry for hurting you," he said softly, sitting down in the armchair. "I hope you get well soon, but..."

The apartment had warmed up, but Matt still felt ice-cold.

"I don't want to play your game."

* * *

**ALFRED**

You sure like fairytales, don't you?" Al asked, expecting no response.

Arthur was lying in bed, breathing softly. Al could hear it in the dead-silent room. Kiku had left half-an-hour ago, determining that Al's state—his frantic mind—had calmed. The Japanese man was a quiet, well-mannered type of person, but not unlikeable. Al got the feeling that he kept to himself. He seemed like a thoughtful person, the type who would make a good ally. Kiku had bowed politely when he left, wishing Al well. Al had paced around the lounge for a while, feeling restless. Suddenly, he had too much energy. Then he slipped into the bedroom to check on Arthur.

"I hope you don't resent me for this," he said honestly. Al was a contradictory personality. He was unafraid of insulting others, but felt insecure when someone else disliked _him_. As much as he hated his situation, kidnapped and forced to live in close-quarters with a stuck-up stranger, he really didn't want Arthur to hate him.

"You've got a lot of books in here," he said aloud. He hated the silence, but the radio had been fried. Initially, he had been drawn to the books in search of information. Perhaps Arthur had guidebooks for new Magi: _A Beginner's Guide to Magic_, or _Magic for Dummies_, but he was wrong. Instead, the bookshelf was filled with fiction. Old fiction. He pulled out several books to read the titles: _Beowulf_, _The Canterbury Tales_, _The Complete Shakespeare_, and_ Idylls of the King_. He took the later to an armchair and kicked his legs up over the bed's edge, fidgeting to get comfortable. Then he snapped his fingers to light the lamp. It crackled, spitting hot sparks, and then glowed pleasantly. Al smiled.

"This magic thing," he said to Arthur, holding the book on his lap, "might not be so bad."


	4. Chapter Four

**DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya**

**BIRDSONG**

* * *

**FOUR**

**ARTHUR**

**ONE WEEK LATER**

The breathing exercises that Kiku taught you seem to be working quite well."

Arthur was in the kitchenette mixing batter, baking scones. Al was sitting cross-legged in the lounge, eyes closed as he inhaled deeply through his nose and exhaled through his mouth, holding his breath for several seconds at a time. He and Arthur had started arguing about scones—Arthur's cooking ability in general, really—and a light-bulb had blown-out. A fist had banged angrily on the wall from the other side. Lovino was secretly (but everyone knew) afraid of the dark and he got nervous whenever Al accidentally made the lights flicker. The North American had immediately stopped yelling, retreated to the settee, and began the routine that Kiku had taught him. Relieved, Arthur had left him to it. It had been twenty minutes since then.

"You're getting better at containing your magic. I think you're ready to start training," Arthur mused.

Al cracked an eye open. "Oh? Yeah, sure," he said, failing to hide his excitement.

He gave Arthur his usual cold-shoulder for the rest of the day, pretending that the Englishman's words were inconsequential, but that night at supper Arthur overheard him telling Matt all about it. The boy gestured in animated anticipation. Arthur smiled into his glass, pleased by Al's eagerness. Then he caught Francis' curious eye.

"Alfred and I are going to start training tomorrow," he explained, low-voiced. "I think he's ready. His attitude has improved significantly. I'll take him to the summit to test him before we start."

"That's a good isolated place to test him, and you're right to do so," Francis agreed. "There's no telling how much energy Alfred can produce. I want to start training with Mathieu as well, but..." He hesitated, glancing sideways at Matt, who was smiling as he listened to Al. "I don't want to overwhelm him. I think I'll wait a little longer, he's still not entirely comfortable with me."

"You're going to have to test him eventually," said Arthur seriously. "If you're waiting to become best mates with Matthew before you start, you're going to be waiting for a _very_ long time. I don't know if you've noticed, but he isn't the friendliest of people. Oh, I'm not saying he isn't kind, just that he's a private person. I don't dislike him at all," Arthur nodded in approval. "All I'm saying is that you can't coddle him. If you think that Alfred and I are chums then you're very much mistaken, but he _needs_ to start training and it's my responsibility to tutor him. He might hate my methods, in fact, I'm sure he will, but it's for his own good."

"I know," Francis sighed, swishing water in his glass. "But Alfred is so strong-willed. He's stubborn. Mathieu isn't the confrontational person Alfred is. He keeps quiet and stays out of the way. I think he does it to avoid conflict, but he barely even talks to me. He's polite and he'll do almost anything I ask, but he does it mechanically. There's no warmth in him," Francis described. "I mean, if we can't communicate with each other then how are we going to train together? No." He shook his head. "I'm not going to start training him until I'm sure that he's ready."

Arthur was skeptical, but he didn't deny Francis' plan. He kept his reservations to himself. Matt belonged to Francis; it wasn't Arthur's place to criticize him. Not until the Frenchman's deceptively charming and selfless attitude crashed into a panic, which _would_ happen eventually. It always did. _The bloody git_,_ he's been through this eight times already_, _but he never learns_. Arthur could tell when the Frenchman was feeling self-destructive, _which he's not yet_,_ thank God_. (Arthur didn't want to train Al _and_ play therapist to Francis simultaneously. He didn't have the energy.) Despite their antagonistic relationship, it was always Arthur whom Francis went to for help and advice; Arthur whom he yelled at, letting out all his frustration. Everyone else knew Francis as the attractive, suave French gentleman who was an excellent chef and—rumour had it—a fantastic lover. Arthur was the only person he showed his insecurities to. _Because we've been together for so long_. _There was a time when we were all the other had_._ It wasn't by choice that I became his bloody confidant_,_ but that's what I am_.

_Alfred and Matthew are the same_, he realized, watching them. _Alfred is Francis and Matthew is myself_. _Except_, _Alfred isn't quite as composed as Francis and he's got way more energy_._ But he's unafraid to show his emotions_,_ positive or negative_._ He's young_, Arthur concluded. _He requires a lot of attention_.

* * *

Arthur roused Al at daybreak, thinking it best to get an early start. He risked Al's unpleasant morning demeanor and marched him outside, past a handful of rifle-wielding guards. They glared at Al, remembering him, but they didn't say anything. _It's because I'm here_, Arthur knew. The guards wanted to provoke Al, but even they knew how unwise it was to antagonize a Magi with a Magnus. Arthur led Al into the gardens, whistling for him when he became distracted. Al frowned in annoyance—"Hey, I'm not a dog!"—but he followed. By the time they reached the mountain's summit, Al was breathing hard and sweating despite the wind's chill.

"Are you trying to kill me or what?" he gasped, climbing the steep stone steps. "Isn't there, like, a gondola or something?"

"You need to train your body as well as your mind. This is a good warm-up," said Arthur.

"_Warm-up_?" Al collapsed at the summit, hands braced on his knees. "Is this one of those dumb British jokes you make that I don't get? I'm hungry," he said when Arthur ignored him. "Why did we have to skip breakfast? Today was pancake day!" He stopped suddenly when he saw the view. It was beautiful: rolling green mountains covered in a low-hanging fog as far as he could see. "How far east are we?" he asked in awe.

Arthur knew exactly what Al was thinking. He had thought the same thing once. "We aren't in China. I know it looks like it, but this is neutral territory somewhere in the South Pacific. That's all I know. The Doctor likes to keep his secrets. I guess it's so none of us can return here after we've been sold. C'mon," he said, changing the topic. "I want you to do something for me before we start training." He pointed to a wooden platform that hung over the edge like a balcony. "Stand there." He positioned the Magi. "You're not afraid of heights, are you?" he asked as Al's body crackled with nervous electricity. Al shook his head. "That's good. Now give me the gloves."

"Are you sure?" Al asked, slipping off the rubber gloves. Since last week he had worn them religiously, even while sleeping, and without urging from Arthur. The Englishman wondered why the boy had changed his mind when he had been so embarrassed by the gloves before, but, supposing it was a sensitive topic, he didn't ask. Instead, he had kept his mouth shut about Al's inadvertent attempted manslaughter. It was still rather blurry in Arthur's mind. One minute he had been leaning down to sooth Al's nightmares—the boy had been crying and thrashing in his sleep—and then he had seen a sudden flash of light and felt a jolt of searing-hot pain. The next time Arthur had opened his eyes, twenty-four hours had passed and he was lying in his bed, Al asleep in the armchair beside him. Considerately, Arthur had let Al sleep until midday. He had gotten up to shower, and by the time he was finished Al was making toast in the kitchenette. It was awkward for about two minutes, until Arthur criticized the amount of peanut-butter Al slathered onto his toast and an argument erupted. After that, all thoughts of electrocution and selfless care-taking disappeared and, since then, a mutual understanding had passed between them: Al was sorry and Arthur wasn't upset.

"Don't worry," Arthur said, taking the gloves from Al. He stepped back. "Now, I want you to focus on the sky. No, don't look at me, look at the sky. Can you feel the electrical charges in the air? Focus on them, try to grasp them, and then let go. Seriously, Alfred, just let it go. There's nobody here to hurt." Arthur smiled in encouragement. "Give it your best, most powerful shot. I want to see what you can do."

* * *

**ALFRED**

Al felt the vibrations rumbling through the breeze. He felt the electricity in the atmosphere, in the mountain itself. Everything surrounding him seemed charged. He focused on that strong, pulsating feeling, staring as instructed at the cloudy sky. Taking a deep breath, he reached overhead and clapped his hands, squeezing his palms together. He could feel heat, then his hands began to sting. A bolt of white-lightning exploded in the sky. Seconds later it split, becoming two—three—four lightning bolts spiraling together. It was like holding a whip of fire, hard to grasp; harder to contain. Sweat beaded on Al's forehead and his arms shook, but the power was invigorating. He was aware of every cell in his body, and every electrical charge within a mile. The sudden adrenalin rush was like nothing he had ever felt. He yelled happily, whopping in celebration.

"Did you see that? I did that!" he cheered when the lightning vanished. Facing Arthur, he pointed to the sky. "That was amazing! I feel so badass! So alive! So—" his stomach growled loudly "—so hungry. Is that proof enough for you?" He pointed upward. "Can I have breakfast, now?"

Arthur reached into his satchel and pulled out an apple, which he tossed to Al. "Don't worry, I brought lots of treats. You can't train a dog without treats," he chuckled.

Al shot him a dirty, ungrateful look. He bit into the apple's juicy flesh. "So, what else?" he asked, mouth full. Arthur handed him a serviette; Al rolled his eyes. "That's not what I meant. What about my training?"

"_Our_ training," Arthur emphasized, "starts as soon as we return to the garden. C'mon, Alfred." He whistled. "Let's go back down the mountain. If you do it without complaining, I'll give you another treat."

Al chucked the apple core at him, but Arthur dodged it. Despite his condescension, when Arthur cracked a genuine smile it was a nice smile. It touched his Lincoln-green eyes and made him look younger.

Al knew that Arthur was only trying to be a good teacher. He took great care to explain every detail of magic, even when Al didn't care. He was certain the Englishman just liked the sound of his own smooth voice. "It's a Magnus' obligation to tutor his Magi," Arthur lectured. It could have been his catch-phrase at this point. Al just rolled his eyes. He had thought it was obvious until he realized that Matt didn't know half of what Al did about magic. It seemed that Francis was less inclined to share the grittier details of magic with Matt, which left him ignorant of it and infuriated Arthur. "There's no excuse for injury through ignorance," he complained. "If Matthew comes to or causes harm then Francis will be the one to blame." It didn't make Al feel any better, though. _I don't care who's fault it is_. _I don't want Mattie to get hurt at all_! That's why Al was studying extra hard. He wanted to absorb as much as possible, even when Arthur's lecturing voice threatened to put him to sleep. The Englishman gave him lots of books—not magic books, but science books—and liked to quiz Al every day at breakfast and before bed. Al didn't spend much time in the Birdcage's public spaces, but he studied the bonded pairs whenever he could, observing the way they interacted together. Most of them were cryptically unhelpful (their interactions were confusing at best), but Al was determined to take advantage of everything he could. He didn't want to waste his gift. If this was to be his life, then he wanted to make the best of it.

"Oi, Alfred, _catch_!" Arthur threw a granola bar at the boy. In surprise, Al fumbled and dropped it. "Well, your reflexes need training," Arthur analyzed. "Let's see how good your aim is." He stopped in front of a circular target.  
"Archery?" In intrigue, Al glanced from the target to the fletched arrow in Arthur's hand.

"Your specialty is electricity, it's the most unpredictable sort of magic because it's completely made up of raw energy. It's wild and intangible." Arthur pointed to a longbow, which Al picked up. "We'll learn to gauge your power eventually, but right now I want you to focus on aim. If you can't completely control the amount then at least you'll be able to control the direction. Archery is excellent practice, it requires patience, precision, and skill."

Al held the bow, which was heavier than it looked, and nocked the arrow. "Okay, sure. It's just like shooting a gun, right? I just point and—Whoops." The arrow fell to the ground, leaving the bowstring empty. Al tried again. "Just hold it taut and then—Shit!" Twice more he struggled to position the arrow before he finally managed to let it clumsily fly. It soared over the target and into the forest. Helplessly, he looked at Arthur. "So—?"

"You're really shite with a longbow, you know. Well, don't just stand there looking at me. Go on and fetch it."

"Will you quit making dog references already?" Al snapped. "Just give me another arrow." Unperturbed, the Magnus pointed to the forest. "Ah, _of course_," Al exhaled in annoyance. "You only brought one arrow, didn't you? This is a lesson, isn't it? Goddamn it," he grumbled, trudging off. "This isn't fair! You _knew_ I'd miss the target! What does this prove? Why didn't you bring more arrows? Why do I have to go and get it?"

"Because I told you to. Now go—get—the—fucking—arrow."

By the time Al returned holding the arrow—scratched, sweaty, and in a foul temper—Arthur was sitting on a tree stump enjoying a travel-mug full of English tea and a raisin biscuit. He grinned, still chewing as Al approached. "Found it, did you? I didn't expect it to take you so long. You must have shot it pretty far. You've got terrible aim, but a good arm," he said, twisting an insult into a sideways compliment. "Well, what are you waiting for?" He gestured. "Keep shooting. We're not leaving until you hit the bloody target."

Al nocked the arrow again, loosed it, and it flew into the forest.

Arthur shrugged, and said: "Off you go then," and bit into another biscuit.

The third time Al missed the target he threw the longbow down in a rage. "I can't do it! Do I look like fucking Robin Hood to you, you tea-guzzling jackass? This isn't fair! You can't just expect me to know how to do this without any training! You haven't even taught me how to shoot it!"

Arthur finished his tea, screwed-on the lid, and set down the mug. "That's because you never asked me to."

Al balked. "_Wha_—?"

He stared at Arthur in disbelief. The Englishman looked nonchalant, thumbs squeezed into the tight pockets of his black-jeans, grinning benignly. _Oh_,_ fuck_._ Archery wasn't the only test_,_ was it_? Al clenched his teeth, swallowed his pride, and said:

"Okay, fine. I get it. You're my Magnus, we're partners. I should have asked for your help from the start. I'm supposed to rely on you, right?" Arthur tapped his own nose in congratulations. Al cocked his head irritably. "You're a real jerk, you know that?"

Resigned to his fate, he collected the bow and arrow. "Arthur," he said, squaring his shoulders formerly, "will you please teach me how to shoot a longbow?"

Arthur smiled. "Of course, I will."

* * *

**ARTHUR**

Stand sideways with one foot in front of the other, just so," said Arthur, gently slapping Al's thigh. He circled around him. "Spread your legs a bit more; keep your feet a shoulder's width apart. That's better. Stand straight." He touched Al's back, applying a slight pressure to guide him. "Keep your stomach in—" He paused. He could feel the defined muscles in Al's midsection beneath his t-shirt. He was fit for a teenager. "Err... yes, that's good." Hesitantly, he moved his hands to Al's hips and made the gentlest contact with his fingertips. "Rotate your hips back, under your upper-body, but keep your back straight." He released the boy and stepped back. "Good, your posture's good."

"_Do I look like fucking Robin Hood to you_?" Al had snapped in anger. It was a jest, but Arthur now thought: _Yes_,_ actually_,_ you kind of do_.

Al had a tall, athletic physique and looked strong. He cut a rather heroic figure, like the dashing protagonist of an Olde English legend; a handsome, young warrior with his sunshine-blonde hair and those dazzling blue eyes. His whole persona was inspiring of a poem, especially while holding the longbow.

_He makes heroism look so effortless_, Arthur thought, considering the boy.

"Arthur?" Al glanced at him.

The Englishman flinched. Al so rarely called him by his given-name that it took him by surprise when he did. It sounded nice on Al's lips, though. The North American boy pronounced Arthur's name with the slightest Southern twang, which made Arthur's pulse quicken.

"Your alignment is important," he lectured to distract himself. "You maintain stability through your centre of gravity, your core. Breath slowly and evenly. Kiku's exercises will be helpful. Now, hold the bow in the web of your hand," Arthur said, repositioning Al's fingers. "Don't squeeze it, hold it lightly. Keep your thumb pointed at the target, but relax your fingers. _Relax_," he repeated. Al let Arthur show him. He was surprisingly receptive to guidance. Arthur moved behind the boy and leant against his shoulder. "Place three fingers below the arrow shaft and keep your index-finger against the nock of it, just like this." He entwined his fingers with Al's. "Draw back." He pulled Al's hand back, leaning in almost cheek-to-cheek. He could hear and feel the boy breathing, his chest rising and falling rhythmically. He could smell the sweat on his suntanned skin. "That's really good," Arthur said, his voice huskier than he intended. "Now take aim, line it up, and"—his lips almost touched Al's cheek—"release."

The arrow whirled through the air and hit the target.

Al exhaled in pleasant disbelief, a proud smile transforming his lips. "I did it! Did you see that? I totally just did it!" He spun around and suddenly realized how close Arthur was standing.

"Oh, sorry. Yes, I saw it. Cracking shot," Arthur said, retreating quickly. "With practice I'm certain that you'll be able to hit the bull's-eye."

Al beamed. He was a fast-learner when he was interested in the subject, he only needed the right motivation. The student was only as good as the teacher, after all.

_That's what worries me_, Arthur thought.

Al said: "Hey, thanks for teaching me how to shoot, Arthur. I really want to learn how to use my magic and I know I need your help with that. I, uh... I know I can be a pain sometimes. I'm kind of stubborn," he admitted coyly, rubbing the back of his neck. "But I promise I'll train really hard. I'll do whatever you tell me to, even if it's stupid," he teased, flashing Arthur a smile. "I really want to become a great Magi, so take good care of me, okay?"

Arthur felt something tender touch his heart, but he couldn't describe it. It was... warm. Smiling in reply, he said: "Of course, Alfred."

* * *

**ALFRED**

**ONE WEEK LATER**

Is this really necessary?" Al asked as Arthur tied a blindfold behind his head. "When I said I'd do whatever you want, I didn't think you'd get this kinky this fast."

"Sod-off, you git," Arthur replied. He tied the knot tighter than required. "This is a trust exercise. Don't you _trust me_?" he added, pressing his lips teasingly to Al's earlobe. Al swatted at him. "But really, all joking aside, this is hopefully going to improve our teamwork skills. I'm going to stand over here"—his voice moved farther away—"and you're going to follow my instructions. Ready?"

Al shrugged. "Do I have a choice?"

"No. Now walk forward."

A week had passed since Al and Arthur had started their joint training. It had taken the boy twelve hours of practice before he could hit the bull's-eye on the archery target, after which Arthur said: "That was good, Alfred. Now do it again." When he could consecutively hit it, Arthur took away the bow and told Al to use his magic instead. Al had destroyed the target the first time, forcing Arthur to improvise. He painted five circles on a big tree trunk and made Al hit them individually, then simultaneously. "Good. Your control is getting much better. Now, let's see if you can do it under pressure."

"_Are you fucking insane_?" Al gasped, ducking as Arthur threw a lit firecracker at him. "Stop it, you crazy English—_Ah_! Hey! That one almost hit me, you jackass!"

"I'm not stopping until you hit the targets." Arthur grinned devilishly. He tossed a firecracker, then caught it again. "C'mon, Alfred. Show me you're better than this." He chucked the fizzing little grenade at Al.

Al stepped back in retreat and fell, his foot catching on an upraised root. He hit the ground. The firecracker's trajectory was headed straight for him. He saw its path as if in slow motion, just like an arrow. He raised both hands and the firecracker spontaneously combusted, exploding loudly in midair... as did all of the remaining firecrackers in Arthur's hands. He screeched: "_Bloody-hell_!" and dropped them, jumping back.

For a moment, both Magnus and Magi stared at each other in bewilderment. Then they burst out laughing.

"Okay, let's call that a fail and move on for now."

That's where the blindfold had divulged from. Arthur had decided that they needed to better trust each other before their training could progress any further. They started off slowly, just walking and running and jumping. It was easy as long as Al walked on solid ground, but the more complex the coarse became the more nervous he felt and the more doubtful he was. Al wasn't afraid of heights, but when Arthur stood him atop a big jungle-gym he struggled to comply. He hesitated before moving, feeling his way around the metal structure. Finally, Arthur got fed-up.

"Alfred, you're not listening to me. I said _left_."

Al pulled back the blindfold and stared up at Arthur from the flat of his back.

"Do I have to handcuff you as well, Alfred? You've got to _listen_ to me. You've got to pay attention to me and stop trying to do it alone. C'mon, get up," Arthur said, offering Al his hand. "Let's try it again."

* * *

Then he told me to jump, but I didn't know where I was, right? I felt like I was really high up because he had taken me around in circles. He did it on purpose, the jerk. I was sure I was going to fall, but he's not _that_ bad a guide-dog," Al said, grinning at an inside-joke. "I jumped when he told me and landed on the grass. When I finally looked, I had only actually been a foot off the ground. Hey, Mattie, you okay?"

"Hmm? Oh, yeah."

Al might have believed Matt's passive smile if they weren't brothers, but the blue-eyed boy had fifteen years of practice reading his twin's face and could usually tell when something was troubling Matt, or when Matt was lying. In jest, Al called it his true _superpower_, since nobody else could tell what Matt was feeling. His pale-faced twin was good at hiding his emotions, but right now he was as tense as a taut bowstring. He was quiet, unfocused, and kept his violet eyes downcast, refusing to make eye-contact with anyone, including Al. He kept his hands clenched into fists, or toyed with his curls. And he was cold. Literally. Al could feel an aura like dry-ice surrounding him.

_I've been talking about myself and Arthur a lot. Maybe I should focus on him_.

"So, how are you doing, Matt? I thought you'd be training by now, too, it's been almost a fortnight." _Oops_. Al realized at once that he had said the wrong thing. Matt clenched his hoodie strings, tying them into meticulous knots over-and-over again. "Hey, is something wrong?"

Quietly, Matt said: "I don't know." He glanced at Francis and Arthur, who were talking a few feet away. Then he pierced Al with a tense gaze. "I'm not getting any better. In fact, I think I'm getting worse," he confided. "I'm going bat-shit crazy in this place, Al. I need to get out. I just need to run or something. I feel _so_ restless all the time. I can't fucking stand it!" he snapped. Then quickly said: "Sorry. I'm sorry, I'm just... _unstable_." He made air-quotes. "That's what Francis says. That's why he won't let me out."

"Have you talked to him?" Al asked, feeling uneasy. Matt was his brother, his best-friend. Al would never be afraid of him, but he couldn't deny that Matt's temper was frightening when provoked. But he hadn't been provoked as far as Al knew. Francis was—a little overbearing perhaps, but—good to Matt. That's what Arthur had promised. But this was not the laidback, peaceful Matt whom Al was used to. This was a Matt who's temper he had to tiptoe past. _But why_? Al wondered. _What's wrong with him_?_ Is it magic-related_,_ or something else_? "Mattie, maybe you should tell Francis how you're feeling." _Just in case it's not normal_.

"I did. Sort of."

_Doubtful_, Al thought. Matt wasn't inclined to share his feelings, especially when distressed. If Matt said that he had talked to Francis, Al translated that into: _You asked him nicely if you could go outside and he said no_,_ so you quietly left it alone. You didn't tell him how awful you're feeling because you're ashamed of it_,_ scared_,_ and you don't want to be a bother. There's no way Francis knows how you're feeling_,_ Matt_,_ because you haven't told him. But you can't do this alone_. "What exactly did you say to him?"

"I asked him if I could go outside for a run, but he said no," Matt said. Al inwardly smiled in congratulations; he knew his brother well. Matt, however, wasn't smiling. Aggressively, he said: "I'm going squirrely in his apartment, there's absolutely nothing to do! It's just Francis and I day after day for two fucking weeks now! I only leave at meal times and he won't let me go anywhere by myself! He says it's because my magic is volatile, and I know that he's right because—_Fuck_! Look!" He raised his hands, showing Al. It looked like he was wearing gloves made of ice. It coated his pale skin from elbows to fingertips. Angrily, he slammed his fist into the wall, scattering ice shards. "I can't control it!"

Al took a cautious step forward. "Didn't Yao teach you to meditate?" he asked, pretending Matt's condition didn't worry him.

Matt scoffed. "I can't be meditating all fucking day, can I? It used to help more, but now I can't concentrate. Al," he whispered, sounding suddenly desperate. "I'm afraid that I'm going to hurt someone again, and I don't think there's anything I can do about it. It's just a matter of time before I—"

"Mattie, it's okay. It's going to be okay." Al did the only thing he could think of to prove that he wasn't afraid and pulled Matt into a hug. "You're not dangerous, Mattie. Not you. You're just feeling overwhelmed. Nothing bad is going to happen, okay? I won't let it. That's why I'm training so hard, to protect us both. I promise I won't let anything hurt you, Matt—including you."

* * *

Al's shot went wide and a tree branch cracked and fell, smoking. He pulled off the blindfold and cursed: "_Fuck_!"

"Alfred, what's wrong with you today?" Arthur berated. He set down his travel-mug and walked over, hands anchored on his hips. "Something's on your mind," he guessed. "You're not listening to me. You're not thinking before you act. You're distracted, that's not good. I've told you a thousand times, magic requires the utmost concentration—"

"I know!" Al yelled, harsher than he meant to. "I just... I'm worried about Matt. Something's wrong with him. I can't focus," he said in defeat. "Can't we just quit for today?"

"Absolutely not. You're distressed, which is the perfect time to practice," said Arthur relentlessly. "Physical distractions are one thing, but nothing cocks-up magic more than emotional distress." In indication, he pointed to the tree scoured with cuts and scorch marks. "Mastering aim and precision is more important for you than power, Alfred. We're not leaving here until you do as you're told, until it's reflex—"

"Fuck you!" Al rounded on him. "I know it's fucking important! You're like a broken fucking record, Arthur! I just can't do it right now, okay? You insensitive prick!" he growled. "I'm done for today. I'm going back to see Matt, he's not well. He needs me a lot more than you do."

"Oh?"

Cryptically, Arthur stalked to the targeted tree and stood with his back to it. Al frowned, but when he realized what the Magnus was doing his eyes grew wide.

"Hey, wait!" he said, redoubling to stop him.

Arthur ignored him. He held a remote-control for the machine he used to launch firecrackers (like a baseball pitching machine).

"Don't, Arthur! I can't stop it right now! I can't control it!" Al warned, picking up speed. "Stop it, please! Please don't—ARTHUR!"

Arthur stabbed the button and every firecracker launched at once, aimed directly at him, but he didn't move. He didn't flinch. He didn't even close his eyes. He must have been scared, but he stood his ground, confident that Al would destroy the firecrackers and save him.

_You goddamned fool_! Al panicked. _I can't save you_!_ I'm not good under pressure_! _You're going to get hurt_! _I can't—_

Al moved in reflex. Muscle-memory guided him and, before he realized what he was doing, he had raised his hands and fired a bolt of electricity. It split in six directions, each targeting a single firecracker. _Just stop_!

The firecrackers exploded with a loud _bang_!in front of Arthur and then fell harmlessly to the ground. Al fell to his knees in disbelief, breathing hard, and Arthur had the nerve to _smile_!

"I think I've finally figured you out," he said, approaching Al. Companionably, he offered the Magi his hand. "You're a protector, Alfred. Your magic is offensive in defense of others, like your personality is. It doesn't mean half as much to you if no one's in danger. I should've seen it sooner," he said thoughtfully.

Al stared at him in utter bewilderment. He wanted so badly to be angry with Arthur, to lash-out and yell: _You scared the hell out of me_! but Arthur's freckled face was smiling as if he had just found the missing piece of a complex puzzle. He looked proud of Al's accomplishment.

"You've got such a hero-complex," said Arthur, taking Al's hand. He squeezed it and Al felt suddenly hot. His mouth felt dry as he stood there wordlessly. It surprised them both. "Alfred—?" Arthur repeated expectantly. "I've just called you a bloody hero, do you really have nothing to say?"

"I, uh..." Al paused, lost in those proud Lincoln-green eyes. It stirred something inside him that he had never felt before, something that made his heartbeat skip. So charged with energy, proximity to Arthur made Al completely aware of the Englishman's body. He could feel his beating pulse; his temperature; the moisture licking his pale skin. He could hear Arthur's heartbeat. It was intimate and it took Al off-guard. He couldn't explain how he had felt when he had seen those firecrackers heading for Arthur. He had been afraid and acted on impulse. But was it Al's instinctive nature to protect those in danger, or was it something more? He swallowed nervously. He didn't know how to respond to this foreign feeling; he didn't know what to say in reply. So he said:

"I'm really hungry."

* * *

**ARTHUR**

After that, Arthur devised a training regime to strengthen Al's weaknesses. "Your reflexes have gotten significantly better, but you're too impulsive. Muscle-memory is good, but you've got to be able to think faster. It should be second-nature to react sensibly as well as quickly. It's like chess, you've got to stay ahead."

"Are you telling me I don't think fast enough?" Al frowned.

Arthur had since then learnt to recognize the difference between joking Al and offended Al (royally pissed-off Al was easy to spot).

"Hey, how come you don't train with me?" Al asked, stretching his long, muscular arms. "Ludwig trains with Feliciano every day, Antonio trains with Lovino, and Toris trains _instead_ of Feliks. So, why don't you train with me? Afraid of sweating, Artie? You're going to get fat!" Playfully, he lifted Arthur's t-shirt, revealing the hard, lean muscles underneath. "Oh."

Arthur, who had jumped defensively, relaxed at the awed look on Al's face. "It might surprise you, Alfred, but I've spent every day for the last seven years training my mind and body," he bragged, leaving out the bit about his high metabolism and low-percentage of body-fat. (He had been an exceptionally scrawny lad.) "But if you want us to train together, by all means, let's go for a run."

"I take it back!" Al gasped, thirty minutes later. They were running uphill on a forty-five degree angle. Al was panting hard and sweating bullets. The front of his sleeveless t-shirt was soaked. "I—need—a—break. I—hate—this. Matt—runs—every—day—but—I—hate—it." He doubled-over and clenched his knees. "And now I hate you. Oh God! I can't breathe!"

"Oh, don't be so melodramatic," Arthur scolded, stretching his limbs. Al sank to his knees. Arthur rolled his eyes. "You're doing well for a first-timer. I was expecting you to turn around at—_Ah_! _What are you doing_?"

On his knees, Al threw his arms around Arthur's waist. He wailed in a mock-English accent: "Please Master, I can't bloody take it anymore! Have mercy!"

"Is that supposed to be funny?" Arthur struggled. The more he pried Al's arms, the tighter the boy squeezed, like a boa-constrictor. "Alfred, stop being a—_a-ah_! Let go!"

"C'mon, Artie, loosen up."

Without warning, Al stuck his hands up Arthur's t-shirt and grabbed at his ribs, tickling him. Arthur's body involuntarily jolted and he cracked a smile, his shoulders arched in defense as he fought Al.

"Stop it! Stop it, you bloody—_Ah_! _Ah-ha_!" Arthur laughed until he was teary-eyed and gasping. "Alright, alright, I yield!" he shouted from the flat of his back. Al had pinned him and was grinning victoriously. Arthur flicked the boy's forehead. "Bloody wanker."

"If you are done doing, uh... whatever you are doing," said a third-party voice, "we need to use the path."

Arthur looked up and found Yao and Kiku watching them in vague confusion. "Oh, yes! Sorry!" He pushed Al off and crawled to his feet. "We were just having a bit of a run, but... I suppose we're done now." He glanced at Al for confirmation; the boy nodded and pouted pleadingly. "Yes, we're done. The path is yours, Yao. Unless..." A thought suddenly struck him. "Perhaps you want to train together?" Yao cocked his head, his forearms folded into his sleeves. "I think Alfred's ready to try sparring and the pair of you would make jolly-good first opponents" (both skilled, but not obnoxiously competitive). "What do you think, Yao? He could really use the practice." Arthur cocked his thumb at Al.

Yao exchanged a glance with Kiku, who nodded. "Okay, that sounds good. But do not expect us to go easy on you just because you have a beginner, Arthur." He faced Al, a sharp glint in his black eyes. "Do not hold back, Alfred. Show us what _new-blood_ can do."

* * *

Those crafty jerks!" Al complained, collapsing onto the settee. "They looked so nice and innocent when we started, but just look at this—_Ouch_!" He whined as he pulled his t-shirt off overhead, displaying a canvas of purpling bruises. "You and I aren't even bonded. How could you think we were ready to challenge _them_—fucking ninjas," he grumbled.

"Here." Arthur handed him a teacup. "Don't turn your nose up at it, it's all I've got. And it's hot." Grudgingly, Al took it. He leant back, shifting from left-to-right in discomfort. "Alfred," said Arthur, sitting down beside him. "Do you want me to massage your shoulders for you? I used to do it for Francis all the time. You might feel better if you..." He stopped. Al was staring at him strangely. "I'm not terrible at it, really. It might help you relax your muscles so that you're not sore tomorrow. And it'll help you sleep, and..." He sighed and stood up. "Oh, never-mind. I'll just get you a cold-pack or something."

"No!" Al grabbed Arthur's wrist. "I mean, yeah. You can... do it." Blushing, he looked down at his teacup.

Arthur blinked at him in puzzlement. "Alright then." He sat sideways, his leg curled under him. "Just relax."

He took Al's shoulders and repositioned him. Then he applied pressure, soft at first, but harder as he worked the kinks out of Al's tense, corded muscles. He started at Al's neck, toying with his wheat-blonde hair, and then moved slowly down his spine to his clavicle, his broad shoulders, and his deltoid muscles. His defined body was warm, taut, and strong. Involuntarily, Al groaned and arched into Arthur's experienced touch. He gasped when the Magnus hit a bruise. "Oh, sorry, Alfred." Al mumbled absently in reply and leant back against Arthur's chest as his body went limp. He closed his eyes in contentment, cradling his empty teacup.

"Are you going to fall asleep?" Arthur asked, working his thumbs against Al's back. "Do you want me to stop so you can go to bed?"

"Hmm, no," Al sighed, already half-asleep. "...don't stop."

Arthur pursed his lips, hiding a smile. His Magi trusted him and felt comfortable enough to fall asleep in his arms, letting Arthur take care of him. It was a small victory after two weeks, but a victory nonetheless. He only wished that he could see Al's sleeping face.

Quietly, he said: "Okay."

* * *

**ALFRED**

It was late when Al slowly drifted back to consciousness. He had been having a pleasant dream. It had been warm, like a tropical beach wrapped in sunlight. He hugged something solid. Half-awake, he peeled open his eyes and realized that his head was pillowed on Arthur's chest. The Magnus was asleep. Al could feel his heart beating and his lungs breathing, chest gently rising and falling. Blonde eyelashes kissed his freckled cheeks and his lips were slightly parted. His arms were holding Al loosely, resting on the boy's back. It was dark, but the blinds were up and moonlight shone in. They were in the lounge, lying together on the settee. Al had been so exhausted after sparring with Yao and Kiku that he had fallen asleep without even realizing it. He just remembered the touch of Arthur's skillful hands, pleasantly cool as they massaged his sore muscles. He should have felt embarrassed that he had fallen asleep so easily, hugging Arthur, but he wasn't.

Maybe it was his exhaustion, or the comfortable position. Maybe it was the feeling of security. Maybe he was still dreaming. Whatever the reason, Al laid back down and pressed his cheek to Arthur's chest. He could faintly smell peppermint tea and pine-needles, and he snuggled close in indulgence. Arthur's body was slender and Al hugged him like a body-pillow. He felt the ghost of Arthur's ribs and the way his chest sloped into a flat stomach. It was disguised strength. It was soothing.

Al closed his eyes and fell back to sleep.


	5. Chapter Five

**DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya**

**BIRDSONG**

* * *

**FIVE**

**MATTHEW**

Matt leant against the window, watching raindrops slide down the bowed glass. He lifted a finger and traced circles that became frost-prints. When he sighed his breath fogged it. He could see the garden, sprawling and tree-infested, and a snaking pond swollen with rainwater. Roderich was holding an umbrella over Elizabeta as she practised her magic. The vibrations of the raindrops made for excellent training conditions for someone who's power was audio-centric. Under the jungle-gym, Berwald was sitting with Tino. He was facing the Fin on a low bench, his long legs pulled up uncomfortably, and was holding Tino's hands. It looked like Tino was trying to manipulate the water by catching raindrops. His pale eyes were squeezed tightly shut in concentration until Berwald tapped his chin, lifting his head. He must have told Tino to relax, because the Fin's posture soon changed and became less tense. Matt squinted and watched as rain flew suddenly off Tino's palms, as if repelled by a magnet. It was a tiny accomplishment compared to others, but Tino grinned happily and Berwald placed a big hand proudly on his head.

Matt shouldn't have felt jealous, but he did.

He hadn't seen Al since yesterday at breakfast. His brother had been training long, hard hours outside and in the training arena with Arthur, learning how to control his magic. Matt didn't resent Al for doing it—Al, Francis had said, was actually getting pretty good—but he did feel rather abandoned (such a sad sounding word). Matt didn't want to feel this way. He hated it. But it was hard not to feel forgotten when he was being kept locked away like an exile.

"Mathieu?"

Matt flinched. He hadn't heard Francis approach. The Frenchman's smile was cautious, which irritated Matt.

_Damn it_, _why do I feel so angry_? he thought in distress. _It's not fair_._ I'm being a total brat_,_ I know I am_,_ but I can't help it_._ I just feel so—_

"—tense," said Francis. His tone was gentle. "You look tired, Mathieu. Aren't you sleeping well? Do you know what would make you feel better?" he continued when Matt shook his head. "I'm going to bake cookies. Do you have a special request?" Again, Matt shook his head. "Oh, come on. Everyone has a favourite flavour. Tell me and I'll make you whatever kind of cookies you want."

"No, thank-you. I'm not hungry," Matt said coldly.

Francis left in defeat and Matt pursed his lips, biting back the sudden urge to cry.

_What is wrong with me_?

* * *

**FRANCIS**

Francis entered the communal kitchen on the fifth floor, opened up the pantry, and sighed. He didn't actually feel like baking, but he began pulling out ingredients anyway. It was Arthur who had discovered the therapeutic properties of cooking—in Francis, not himself—in their first year of living together, and it was he who had suggested it now. Francis tried to hide his strife, but the attempt was half-hearted.

_Why bother hiding it_? _What good will it do_? _I'm not cold-hearted like Arthur_, he criticized. _I'm not afraid of my own emotions_. _I only wish that Mathieu wasn't either_. The boy was resistant to any form of affection, verbal or physical. _He's like Arthur was when he first came here_, _completely closed._

Matt was making himself sick. Francis could see it, but the boy refused to acknowledge it or accept any help.

_I can't start training with him until he relaxes_. _He doesn't have to like me_, _but he does have to trust me_,_ which he doesn't._

Yet, according to Al, who eavesdropped on Francis and Arthur's private conversations, this was not who Matt usually was:

"Mattie's the most laidback person I know," he had said. "It's actually really hard to make him angry because nothing fazes him. And even if you do, he's super forgiving. If he's upset then it has to be magic-related, because my brother just _doesn't_ get angry. Not unless it's hockey season," he added, making a half-hearted joke.

It was then that Gilbert strode into the kitchen and headed straight for the refrigerator. "Hey, Fran," he said, burying his head in search of snacks. When he found nothing satisfactory, he slid provocatively onto a barstool at the island-counter across from Francis. "So, what're you making?" he grinned, fingers inching forward.

Francis slapped him with a whisk. "Cookies, but they're not for you. You can lick the beaters when I'm done," he offered in appeasement.

"Who are they for?" the German asked, resting his chin on folded arms. "Your new little birdie?" he guessed. "Trying to seduce this one too, huh? He's the violet-eyed blonde, right? The real pretty one. Is that why you're keeping him locked away upstairs, because you don't want any competition from the awesome me? I can't say I blame you," he shrugged conceitedly. "Hey, when you fail to bond with him maybe they'll give him to me—"

"Gil, I'm really not in the mood," said Francis, stirring aggressively.

Gilbert blinked, arrogance melting into confusion and then concern. "Hey, you okay, Fran?"

Before Francis could reply, Antonio waltzed in. The Spaniard was wearing headphones and shaking his dark-haired head, hips moving rhythmically in a walking-dance. When he noticed the kitchen's occupants, he stopped and pulled down his headphones, letting them rest on his shoulders. "Sup?" he said pleasantly.

"Matt won't let Fran work his _magic_," Gilbert teased. Francis threw an eggshell at him.

Antonio translated Gilbert's innuendo: "You're not having good luck bonding with your Magi?" His tone was sympathetic, but not hopeless. "Don't worry, Franny. Lovino and I were together for almost two years before we were bonded and I couldn't be happier. Some pairs just take longer to find the right rhythm, the necessary trust. Even now, training with Lovino is clumsy at best. He's so lazy," he sighed, shaking his head. "Your Matthew—uh, it's Matthew, right?—will be just fine. He and his brother are a lot like Lovino and Feliciano were. Feliciano bonded right away, but Lovino needed time."

"Yeah, that's true," Gilbert nodded in encouragement. "But it _has_ been almost a fortnight, you know. It might not be a bad thing to start pushing him, Fran."

Francis frowned. "I don't want Mathieu to hate me."

"He won't," said Antonio. "I mean, I obviously don't know him, but he _probably_ won't hate you." Quickly, he changed tactic. "Maybe you should focus on something besides his magic for a while. Try to take his mind off it, you know?" he advised. "Distract him. Take him outside or downstairs or something."

"Yes, okay." Francis forced a smile. "Thanks, Toni."

He really did appreciate Antonio's hopeful outlook, but, unlike he and Lovino, Francis and Matt didn't have time to waste. The Doctor was impatient with Francis and Arthur's previous failures, and this time he had given them a strict deadline. They hadn't told anyone, especially not Al and Matt, but, ready or not, they would be undergoing the Bonding Ceremony at the end of the month.

_We've only got sixteen days left_.

* * *

Don't worry, everything will be just fine," said Antonio and Gilbert. But they were his friends. The rest of the Birdcage was much less forgiving of Matt's magic malfunctions. As Francis walked back up to the ninth-floor, he passed several people who shamelessly complained:

"Francis, you have to do something about that boy! It's freezing in here!"

"If I wanted to be this cold all the time, I'd go live in the fucking fridge!"

"We can't sleep at night, it's so unbearably cold!"

"I hate the snow, Francis! Make it stop!"

"I'm sorry," he apologised insincerely, trying to appease them with freshly-baked cookies.

Only the Nordics and Baltics seemed unperturbed by the wintery temperature. Toris smiled nostalgically as he dusted snow off his nut-brown head, and Raivis tried to catch a fluffy flake on his tongue. Mikkel packed a handful of snow into a perfect ball and fired it playfully at Bjørn, who obliterated it, and said: "It kind of reminds me of home.

"It's not the cold that worries me," he added, eyeing Francis. His gaze was frightfully intimidating for one so beautiful. The Frenchman suddenly felt like a scolded child, though Bjørn wasn't much older than him. "That boy," Bjørn pointed to Francis' apartment, implying Matt, "is not well and you're not helping him."

Mikkel and Bjørn left before Francis could rebuttal and he entered his apartment feeling indignant. Matt had fallen asleep on the window-bench with his hood pulled up. Francis wanted to think Matt looked sweet and peaceful in sleep, but he didn't. He looked tormented.

_Is this really my fault_? he wondered, thinking on Bjørn's words. _I wish I knew how to help him. Perhaps I'll peruse Arthur's library_,_ he might have something that can help._

He left the cookies in the kitchenette and put on his coat.

* * *

**MATTHEW**

Matt awoke feeling tired and restless. It had only been twenty minutes since he had fallen asleep, but he couldn't rest. He couldn't relax. The closest feeling he could compare it to was jetlag, exhausted but unable to sleep. He sat up and a blanket fell to the floor. _Eh_? _I didn't have a blanket when I fell asleep_. Then he saw Francis sitting with his legs kicked up over the coffee-table, reading a book. He braced it against his knees, a coffee mug in one hand and a cookie in the other; he flipped the page with his pinky. Matt cracked his neck and back, stretching. Outside, it had stopped raining and the sun was shining. _If I was home I'd be going for a run_. Matt loved being outside after a rainfall when the world felt so refreshed. _Maybe if I ask him he'll let me go_.

"Francis," Matt said. He didn't want to interrupt, but Francis' head perked up the instant he heard his name. He looked so happy to be acknowledged; it made Matt feel guilty. "I was just wondering..." he said hesitantly, standing as he folded the discarded blanket. "Could I go outside for a run? Just a quick one? Like, twenty minutes?"

"Oh, well..." Francis looked doubtful. He tried not to show it, but his face was expressive, like Al's. "I want to let you, _chéri_, but..." He licked his lips and stood, as well. "I think that, for now, it's safer if you just stay inside. There are a lot of people training outside today and I wouldn't want anything to, uh... surprise you. I don't want you to feel overwhelmed," he repeated his favourite excuse. "Okay, Mathieu?"

Matt swallowed, wanting (again) to cry for no reason. Silently, he nodded.

"But," hurried Francis, trying to cheer him, "why don't we go downstairs to the common-room? It's a safe, comfortable place. It has the only television in the whole facility, and a pool table, and an air-hockey table. Or, maybe we could play cards or something?"

He was already halfway to the door, smiling earnestly. Matt didn't want to sit and watch television or play cards; even pool seemed slow-paced. He wanted to do something physical, but at least going down to the common-room would get him out of the apartment, which he had paced like a caged wildcat for over a week. So he nodded.

In the hallway, they found Al and Arthur bickering with each other.

"Hey, Mattie!" Al said, jogging over. "Guess what we did yesterday?"

_Oh_,_ is it _we_ already_? Matt glanced from Al to Arthur, who was talking to Francis. _I shouldn't feel jealous_. _I'm not jealous_, _just tired_, he lied to himself. Al's training was going well. He was a fast-learner when he was interested in the subject, and, despite his attitude, it seemed like Arthur was a good teacher. The Englishman looked merciless, but patient and kind. Al wouldn't have responded to him otherwise. His twin was—whether Al admitted it or not—rather sensitive and disliked when people yelled at him. Matt had always been the better student in terms of studying and the more committed athlete for following schedules. He had always been the more patient of the two, less aggressive, more forgiving, and he didn't (usually) hold grudges. But recently, since coming to the Birdcage, Matt had felt like a loaded pistol ready to explode. He was on-edge all the time and, no matter what he did, he couldn't relax. At first he had been afraid of his fate here, but now he was afraid of himself.

"Hey, Mattie, you okay?"

"Hmm? Oh, yeah." Matt cursed himself for not paying attention.

"How are you doing, Matt? I thought you'd be training by now too, it's been almost a fortnight."

Absently, Matt clenched his hoodie strings, tying them into meticulous knots just to keep his hands busy. He could feel the cold, like dry-ice surrounding him.

"Hey, is something wrong?" Al asked in concern.

_No_, _I'm fine_. Matt tried to stop shaking, hoping that Al wouldn't notice. _I'm just over-tired. I'm just stressed. I'm fine_,_ nothing is wrong_. _I— _"I don't know," he said instead. Cautiously, he glanced at Francis and Arthur, who were talking softly a few feet away. _They're talking about me_,_ I can tell by the look on Francis' face_. Matt felt ashamed that he was causing Francis so much grief. The last thing he wanted was to be a burden, and the French Magnus certainly looked burdened. _I've got to pull myself together_. He was about to tell Al to forget it, but Al looked like a kicked puppy and it hurt Matt's heart. It was then he decided not to lie. He said:

"I'm not getting any better. In fact, I think I'm getting worse. I'm going bat-shit crazy in this place, Al. I need to get out. I just need to run or something. I feel _so_ restless all the time. I can't fucking stand it!" he snapped. Then quickly apologized: "Sorry. I'm sorry, I'm just... _unstable_. That's what Francis says. That's why he won't let me out."

"Have you talked to him?" Al asked, feigning confidence. Matt could see that he was making his twin uneasy, which made him feel worse. "Mattie, maybe you should tell Francis how you're feeling."

"I did. Sort of."

The last thing Matt wanted to do was sit down and have a forced heart-to-heart with Francis, who was still a stranger to him. Besides, he had never been particularly good at sharing his feelings; it made him uncomfortable. He didn't want Francis to think that he was weak and in need of babying. That would be _so_ embarrassing, especially since Al seemed to be perfectly fine. Matt didn't want to get labeled as _the weak one_.

"What exactly did you say to him?" Al fished.

"I asked him if I could go outside for a run, but he said no," Matt said. "I'm going squirrely in his apartment, there's absolutely nothing to do! It's just Francis and I day after day for two fucking weeks now!" He could feel himself getting angrier and colder with each word. He wanted to stop, but he couldn't. His heart was pounding and his mouth was working faster than his brain. "I only leave at meal times and he won't let me go anywhere by myself! He says it's because my magic is volatile, and I know he's right because—_Fuck_! Look!" He shoved-up his sleeves, showing Al his ice-covered skin. Al looked scared. _Damn it_! Angrily, he slammed his fist into the wall. "I can't control it!"

Al took a cautious step forward. "Didn't Yao teach you to meditate?"

"I can't be meditating all fucking day, can I?" _Calm down. Deep breath_. "It used to help more, but now I can't concentrate." He glanced at the two Magnus, who were pretending not to notice the exchange. Matt lowered his voice to a whisper. "Al, I'm afraid that I'm going to hurt someone again, and I don't think there's anything I can do about it. It's just a matter of time before I—"

Matt didn't realize that he was choking back tears until Al said: "Mattie, it's okay. It's going to be okay," and suddenly pulled Matt into a hug. He continued to talk, but Matt barely heard him. Inside, he was panicking.

_No_,_ let go_!_ You're going to get hurt_! His nightmare, a courtyard of ice-sculptures, came screaming back._ Let go of me_,_ Al_! _I don't want to hurt you_!

"_Don't touch me_!" he screamed in French, shoving Al violently off.

Al looked both shocked and dejected by Matt's explosive reaction. Matt bit his tongue and tasted salty blood. He felt terrible, but he didn't know what else to do. Al's safety was the most important thing. Matt would never forgive himself if his twin-brother got hurt because of him. He stumbled back in retreat, and whispered: "I'm sorry, Al. I'm so sorry. Please... just stay away from me."

* * *

**FRANCIS**

Arthur was in midsentence when Francis suddenly bolted. "Mathieu!" he called, jogging off down the corridor. He had heard Matt's outburst and seen him shove Al aside. Now he was standing in a circle of ice shards, clenching his hands over his mouth, as if he had said something awful. But that wasn't the case; he was trying not to cry. Francis could see his shoulders shaking as tears beaded in his violet eyes.

"Mathieu?" he repeated. Matt flinched.

"Mattie, just tell me what's wrong!" Al demanded, but Arthur grabbed him.

The Englishman shook his head. "C'mon, Alfred. You've done enough, let's leave them alone."

Al protested, but he finally agreed when Matt gasped: "_Just go_!"

Francis stood patiently by while Matt tried to compose himself. He knew that he was making the young Magi anxious, but Francis wasn't about to leave him alone. He almost suggested that they forget about the common-room, but decided against it. In the apartment, Matt would lock himself in the bedroom and refuse to talk; probably refuse to eat, as well. Taking him to the common-room would force him to calm down, _and_ distract him from self-pity.

"Are you ready?" he prodded gently.

He led Matt into the elevator, which felt like climbing into a freezer. By the time they reached the fifth floor common-room, the boy had calmed considerably. Francis could see him using the meditation techniques that Yao had taught him. It was a good sign. Matt's eyes were a bit red, but otherwise he looked better. Francis relaxed a fraction as he pushed the door open, however, he had not been expecting the common-room to be full of people.

"_Shit_," he cursed. "There's a football game on today, I forgot."

He was about to retreat, ready to take Matt back upstairs, when:

"Birdie!" Gilbert cried, jobbing over. "Finally get leave to come down and play, did you? But not without your parole-officer I see. Hey, Fran," he said, punching Francis' shoulder good-naturedly in greeting. "C'mon, birdie. None of these guys will play me with the game on, but you're the perfect person to challenge my awesome skills. I can tell." He gestured to the air-hockey table. "It'll be fun. Pretty please?"

"I, uh—okay," Matt agreed.

Stunned, Francis watched as Matt let Gilbert drag him to the air-hockey table. When Matt looked back over-the-shoulder, Francis forced a pleasant smile for the boy's benefit, but he couldn't deny that he felt a stab of jealousy. _I can't even touch you_,_ but Gil can drag you across the room_? he thought, feeling slighted.

"Franny, come watch the game with us," Antonio called, sliding over on the L-shaped couch. In a domino-effect, he pushed up against Lovino, who sat thigh-to-thigh with Feliciano, who was half-sitting on Ludwig's lap, who was sandwiched between he and Sadik, who had recently been released from solitary confinement. Francis sat on the couch's arm beside Antonio and leant back. If asked afterward which teams were playing, he couldn't have answered, even though Ludwig and Lovino were shouting loudly at the television. Instead, he spent the duration spying on Matt and Gilbert's game. Lars soon joined them, his sage-coloured eyes following the puck's trek across the table. It flew across the surface, scattering flecks of ice when it hit the edges. Gilbert and Lars both laughed in delight.

"That's awesome, Mattie!" Gilbert praised.

Francis narrowed his eyes. Matt looked like he was actually having fun. He was actually _smiling_—and Al was nowhere in sight. _That's the sixth game they've played_, he thought as the trio re-started. _And they're not playing tie-breakers_,_ because Gil hasn't won once_. Matt looked more alive than Francis had ever seen him, dodging and diving for every shot as the puck flew across the table. Then he jumped in victory and bumped knuckles with Lars, who then playfully ruffled the boy's hair. Francis might have thought that Gilbert was letting Matt win every game just to see the look on the boy's face, which was adorable—his big violet eyes were alive and fierce—but Gilbert was panting. Neither he nor Lars were being gentle with Matt, and it concerned Francis. The more excited Matt got, the faster the icy puck flew. The same ice coated his hands and crawled up his arms, but he didn't seem to notice, and Gilbert and Lars didn't draw attention to it. They merely shared a grin when it started snowing.

"Germany, I'm so cold!" Feliciano whined. He hugged Ludwig. It drew Francis' attention. He watched as the younger German wrapped his arms around the shivering Italian, looking displeased.

"Did somebody turn the air-conditioning on?" he asked suspiciously. "It's gotten cold in here."

Antonio feigned ignorance as he pulled an afghan over he and Lovino. Lovino's shoulders were hunched and he subtly leant against the Spaniard's side, seeking warmth.

Sadik pulled at the afghan, fighting Lovino for it. "Gah! What happened? It's freezing in here! What the heck is going on? Who's Magi is that?" he asked, finding the source of the cold. In accusation, he stabbed a finger in Matt's direction. Antonio inadvertently glanced at Francis, who hesitantly nodded. Sadik waited a beat, then said: "Well—? Are you going to do something about him or not?"

"Yeah," Lovino grumbled. "Make it stop snowing, Francis."

"He's your responsibility, isn't he?"

"Ah! It's so cold! Please fix it, Francis!"

"Can't you just—"

"—make him fucking stop!"

"Okay, fine!" Francis snapped, defensive on Matt's behalf. "But it's not his fault. He can't control it—"

"Oi, who's birdie is whipping Gil's sorry ass at air-hockey?" Mikkel asked loudly. He strode into the common-room like a king, his arms folded casually behind his silver-blonde head. He was an exceptionally competitive athlete and he was eyeing Matt as if he had found a worthy challenge. "Oi, Gil! I want the next game!" he hollered, who gave him the middle-finger in reply. Mikkel laughed, but he stopped when Bjørn grimly shook his head.

Francis had always thought Bjørn attractive. His wintery beauty was alike Matt's, but the Norwegian would have been much prettier—in Francis' thinking—if he showed more emotion. He had a soft, fair yet inexpressive face, and Francis found him extremely difficult to read. But apparently Mikkel did not.

The Dane's brow furrowed wearily as he read Bjørn's deceptively vacant eyes.

Possessively, Francis said: "That's Mathieu, he's mine—my Magi, I mean."

"He's yours? Oh, uh, good luck then," said Mikkel. "That kid's a fucking whirlwind, Francis, and I don't just mean his table-hockey skills. Look at him, he's wound like a fucking top."

"He needs to expend some energy," Bjørn explained, "before he breaks, either explodes or goes comatose. He desperately needs to do something physical. Make of that what you will," he joked. (At least, Francis thought it was a joke, but Bjørn's face didn't change.) "His magic is eating him from the inside out. I know that feeling, it's horrible. He can't sleep; he's not eating; he's irritable and can't control his emotions. Tell me I'm wrong, Francis," he challenged. Francis glanced down, feeling ashamed, confirming Matt's symptoms. "You can't keep that much energy locked-up," Bjørn said. "That boy needs to let go of it, otherwise he's going to go crazy like a fucking sled-dog."

Mikkel nodded in agreement. "_That_"—he pointed to the snow and ice—"is a very bad sign. You heard Norge. If your Magi can't control his magic then he's got to get rid of it. The same thing happened to us once upon a time." He cocked his head at Bjørn. "He's suffering, Francis. Believe me. Norge was like a live grenade for the first months we were together. I never knew what was going to set him off. That's why you have to train together. You've got to be able to read him. You're his Magnus, he needs to trust you. Take my advice," he said, uncharacteristically solemn. His eyes lingered on Bjørn for a moment, then he said: "Start training with him _now_, because if he cracks then it's going to be fucking ugly."

Francis studied the Norsemen. Bjørn was always pessimistic, but Mikkel—the loud, fun-loving Dane—agreed with him. "Yes, you're right," he conceded. "I'll start training with Mathieu tomorrow."

_Whether he's ready or not. I don't want to push him_,_ but everyone is right_. _My doing nothing isn't helping him. We'll just take it slow. It'll be fine._

_ "_Mathieu!" Francis didn't want to alarm the boy, but it had begun to snow and the southerners were glaring daggers at him. "Let's go back upstairs, _chéri_. It's almost—"

"Go? No, not yet!" Gilbert denied. "We're not done the game. C'mon, birdie, it's your serve."

"Mathieu—"

"Francis, for fuck's sake! Do something about your fucking Magi!" Sadik had lost his patience. "That kid's out of control! We're all going to get sick! He's your fucking Magi, stop him before he hurts someone!"

_Oh_,_ fuck_. Francis saw Matt's eyes widen in sudden realization and his giddy smile disappeared.

"Mathieu, let's just go—"

"Fuck off, you guys!" Gilbert rounded the table and stood defensively in front of Matt. "Go put a fucking coat on if you're so cold. Don't yell at Matt, it's not his fault. Like none of you have ever fucked-up your magic?" He glared at them in accusation. Lars sided with him in support. Together he and Gilbert resembled bodyguards. "It's happened to everyone, so don't be dicks about it!"

"I'm not blaming the kid, I'm blaming Francis!" Sadik snapped. "Control your goddamned pet, Frenchie!"

"Hey! Don't call Matt a—"

"Gilbert," Ludwig interrupted. "If the boy can't control his magic then he shouldn't be out in public. Not with raw power like that, it's too dangerous." He was hugging Feliciano, whose head was buried in his chest ("It's so cold!" he whined). "You don't have a Magi," Ludwig tried to soften the blow, "you don't understand."

Gilbert clenched his jaw. To this, he had no rebuttal.

"Take him outside, Francis. He needs to run it off," Mikkel suggested.

"Outside? The kid needs solitary confinement!"

"No, he doesn't," Lars said. "You're just being selfish because you hate the cold."

"Yeah, I hate the fucking cold! And it's only getting colder, or can't any of you feel that?" Sadik argued.

"Matthew—Uh, that's your name, right?" Ludwig asked. "If you can't stop it then you've got to leave."

"Hey! I told you, it's not his fault!"

"Shut up, Gil!" Sadik snapped, red-faced in anger.

"Francis!" Mikkel gestured. "What are you waiting for? Take him out!"

Francis disliked his housemates' bullying, and he loathed the thought of surrendering to their curt demands, but Matt looked as if someone had punched him unprovoked. His violet eyes were wide and fearful. He stood with his shoulders arched, trying to make himself as small as possible; trying to disappear. Francis pitied him. "Mathieu," he called and reached out. Matt squeezed between his self-proclaimed champions and hurried to Francis' side. "It's okay, _chéri_. Don't worry," he said, shielding the Magi from further slander. He cast a reproachful glare at the common-room as he left.

"I'm sorry," Matt whispered in shame. "I'm so sorry they yelled at you, Francis. I didn't mean to—"

"No, Mathieu. Don't worry about me, _chéri_. Do you think I can't parry an insult from the likes of _them_?" He cocked his head toward the common-room. "It's absolutely nothing to fret about," he lied. "It's like Gil said, this has happened to everyone. It's okay." In reflex, he kissed the crown of Matt's silky head, but the boy was too distracted to notice. He looked distressed, which is exactly what Francis had wanted to avoid.

_No matter where we go_,_ he's uneasy. The Birdcage is still too foreign to him and he's much too concerned with everyone else's well-being_ _and their opinions of him. He's a sweet boy_, _a kind-hearted boy. But right now the only one he's really hurting is himself._

* * *

**MATTHEW**

Francis was trying not to shiver, but he was _very _cold. He knew it; Matt knew it. Matt wondered why the Magnus even bothered with the theatrics of trying to hide it. At six o'clock, Francis went down to have supper—Matt stayed behind, claiming he wasn't hungry—but even so he returned covered in frigid goose-bumps. He couldn't seem to warm up no matter how many layers he wore or how many cups of coffee he drank. The cold was in his bones. So, when he finally said: "I'm going down to the bathhouse to sit for a while," Matt thought it sounded wise. Lounging in the hot, steamy water would be good for the Magnus. But he wasn't happy when Francis dragged him along.

"It'll be nice to relax," he said cheerfully, teeth chattering. Manipulatively, he added: "But if you don't want to go, Mathieu, then I won't go either. I don't want to leave you alone again."

For Francis' sake, Matt begrudgingly agreed to go.

The bathhouse was a long underground room tiled from floor to ceiling in aquamarine. There were stalls for changing in, but otherwise it was open. There were showerheads on the walls for rinsing off and a big communal bath. It was steamy. The air was heavy and moist and the water was pearly, almost opaque. But most importantly, it was empty. Matt ducked into a changing stall and stripped off his clothes, then wrapped a towel around his waist. He had never used a communal bath before—people in North America (usually) preferred to bathe privately—and felt self-conscious as he stepped out. It wasn't like swimming, which had a socially-prescribed uniform. This was a bathhouse; everyone was naked under their towels. Hesitantly, he walked to the edge of the water and tested the temperature.

"Mathieu?" said Francis. He closed the stall's door behind him.

"Yea—"

Matt froze. Everyone in the Birdcage agreed that Francis was attractive (even people who he didn't get along with), but Matt hadn't expected the Frenchman to be so fit, as well. His beautiful body was sculpted with lithe muscle: flawless sun-kissed skin stretched taut over long limbs and a flat stomach that met with shapely hips. There was a fair line of hair that kissed his skin from navel to—Matt blushed, watching as Francis' deft fingers absently combed back his ash-blond curls, already damp; skin already slick with sweat. And he smiled, looking like a French Casanova as he sauntered over.

"I feel warmer already," he said nonchalantly. "Wasn't this a good idea? Look at you, Mathieu, you're already flushed."

Quickly, Matt looked down. He felt very exposed. He was grateful for the water's opacity as he climbed in. It was hot, but the heat didn't penetrate his cold skin.

"_Mathieu_, _parlez-vous français_?"

Matt looked at Francis, who was sitting a few feet away. He nodded. "_Oui_, _très bien_. My parents made Al and I both learn a second language. Al chose Spanish; I chose French."

"_C'est merveilleux_," Francis beamed. He continued in French:

"I heard you speak French to Alfred earlier when you were upset. You're not one of those students who only learnt the profane words, are you?" he teased.

"No, I'm fluent."

Matt bit back a smile as Francis nodded, looking apprehensive, trying to recall if he had ever said anything potentially inappropriate or embarrassing in Matt's presence. _I know you use a lot of terms-of-endearment when you talk. I know that you call me _dear_ or _darling _when you're distracted or worried about me_. But he didn't say anything. Instead, he asked Francis about where he was from. It was a safe topic and he was curious about what kind of person Francis had been before coming to the Birdcage.

"I was born in Paris, but I've moved around a lot since then. I never knew my parents," he explained. "I spent most of my childhood living all over France before I was taken-in by an Italian family as a foster-child. That's where I met Antonio. He's only a year younger than I am. We spent our more informative years together. The family's patron was a big, noisy Italian man." He smiled nostalgically. "He loved to spoil us. We called him _Nonno Roma_. He liked to throw extravagant parties and let his guests dote on us. I won't lie, I loved the attention. The house was never empty and everyone was kind to us. It's where I learnt about the fine arts, and cooking, and dancing—Hey, I can dance rather well, thank-you very much," he said in defense of Matt's snort. "I'm a true gentleman, you know."

_Yes_, Matt thought sincerely._ I have no doubt about that_.

The Magi asked questions and the Magnus replied with long answers. Francis liked to talk about himself, just like Al, but Matt didn't mind. He liked listening to Francis. He liked the sound of his velvety voice. French was such an elegant language, like a verbal dance, and Francis was an animated storyteller, flinging drops of water as he gestured.

Then, suddenly, Feliciano bounced into the bathhouse stark-naked. Ludwig followed, shouting: "_Nein_! Cover yourself up before you—Oh. Hello, Francis." He threw a towel at Feliciano, who wrapped it around his waist. Absent-minded of the tension, the Italian splashed childishly into the water and sank down to his chin. Stiffly, Ludwig joined him, keeping a wary eye on Matt.

The bathhouse went quiet, except for Feliciano's humming. When he realized that nobody else was speaking, he said:

"I saw Al and Arthur training outside today. Your brother is so strong,Matt. I wish I was as strong as Al, but I don't really like training. I like playing football, and taking siestas, and eating pasta. Do you like pasta?"

"Err... I guess so."

"Really? That's great!" Feliciano bounded closer, splashing hot water. He sidled up to Matt, skin-to-skin. "I'll make us pasta sometime and we'll eat it together. Does Al like pasta? It's so nice to have people here who are the same age as Lovino and I. We used to be the youngest. Everyone else can be so grumpy," he complained, oblivious to Matt's discomfort. He tried to move away, but Feliciano followed him. "But my brother can be grumpy, too," he continued. "I don't think he likes living here. It's fortunate he has Antonio. Antonio is really good to him. I think"—he leant closer, whispering in Matt's ear—"that Lovino really likes Antonio and he's just too shy to admit it. What about you, Matt? Do you like living with Francis? I lived with him for a little while when I first came here. He's really nice, isn't he?"

"I, uh... yes. Feliciano, could you please..." Timidly, Matt pushed against Feliciano's shoulder, intending to put some space between them. He glanced at Francis for help when the jaunty Italian didn't get the message.

"Oh wow, Matt! You've got really pretty eyes." Feliciano smiled and leant forward, almost nose-to-nose. The Italian's gold eyes stared directly at him, making Matt feel increasingly uncomfortable. He could feel the cold building inside of him, seeping out, and he panicked.

"Feliciano, please don't touch me!" He dislodged himself, surprising the Italian. "I can't—I'm sorry!"

Quickly, Matt climbed out of the water in clumsy retreat. Feliciano reached out in concern, but he slipped on the wet tiles. In reflex, he grabbed Matt's towel and pulled it off, knocking Matt off-balance. Matt felt with an echoing smack on the floor.

"Oh, no! Sorry, Matt!" Feliciano leapt out.

"_Non_!_ Arrêter_!" Matt yelled. In panic, he whipped out his hand to fend-off Feliciano's touch and a hailstorm of ice shot out like bullets. The blast hit Feliciano directly in the chest and he fell back into the water.

"_Feliciano_!" shouted Ludwig and Francis in union. They both jumped up.

Ludwig lunged through the now frothy, half-frozen water and lifted Feliciano into his arms. The Italian was unconscious and covered in frost. Ludwig yelled angrily in German, then in English:

"I told you! I warned you he was dangerous! That's it, Francis! You've got to lock him up! Just look what he's done! _Verdammt_!"

A storm raged inside of Matt. He clutched his temples and curled into a ball on the floor, squeezing his eyes shut. His heart was pounding. He could feel the temperature plummet. The air became stale and Ludwig and Francis hurried to get out as the water froze-over. Matt repeated: "_I'm sorry_! _I'm sorry_!" but his voice was shaking.

"Mathieu? It's okay, calm down—"

"_No_!" Matt screamed. "_Just leave me alone_!"

* * *

**FRANCIS**

Francis ignored Ludwig's accusations. He dropped to his knees and pulled Matt into an embrace. "Mathieu, it's okay. Calm down, it'll be okay. Don't worry, _chéri_. Don't be afraid, I'm here." The boy was so cold that it burned Francis' wet skin, but he didn't let go. He held Matt tightly against his chest. "Hush-hush, it's okay," he repeated in a soft, soothing tone. "It's going to be okay."

Matt struggled at first, shoving at Francis. "No! Please, let me go! I don't want to hurt you!" But the fight was short-lived. Soon he surrendered and sank weakly against the Magnus, trembling uncontrollably with unspent energy. Francis didn't let him go. He feared Matt's power (he would be a fool not to), but he didn't believe the boy would hurt him. And he was right. Slowly, the ice on Francis' skin melted and the pain receded.

It was a long time before he gently pulled away. "Mathieu?" he said, brushing back the boy's icy curls. "Let's go back upstairs."

* * *

Francis left Matt in bed with a mug of coffee: double sugar, double milk. He met Ludwig on the seventh floor.

"Feliciano's in the infirmary," he said curtly. Then he sighed. "Francis, I don't want to be your enemy, but my Magi got hurt because of your carelessness. It's not fair that Matthew has to suffer for it, but if you don't start taking control of him then I'm going to request he go into solitary confinement. I'm sorry," he added, and then strode off.

Francis was heading downstairs, but he quickly changed direction. Solitary confinement would destroy Matt. Bjørn was right: Matt needed freedom, not containment. His magic would eat away his sanity otherwise. Fervently, he knocked on Arthur's apartment door. _Please be in. Please be in. Please be in—_

"Oh, Alfred. Is Arthur here?"

Al blinked. "Uh, yeah. Hey, Artie!"

"Oh, it's you, frog-eater. What do you want—_Ah_!"

Francis grabbed Arthur's arm and dragged him into the bedroom, then closed the door. "Help me!" he said, facing the Englishman. "Feliciano is in the infirmary because of Mathieu—because of me. But I don't know what to do, Arthur. That boy is like a fucking rollercoaster, up-and-down. He was perfectly happy playing with Gil and Lars; then I took him to the bathhouse and I thought we were getting along really well, but it wasn't enough. He lost control and attacked Feliciano! I mean, it was an accident, but he still... Ah! I really want to help Mathieu, but I don't know how! I can try to calm and coax and coddle him, but he doesn't ever respond. He won't talk to me. I actually had to physically restrain him in the bathhouse just so I could touch him. I want him to feel safe with me. I just want to see him smile," he said sincerely. "Arthur, you should have seen him this afternoon playing with Gil," he added, fueled by jealously. "Mathieu was laughing and having fun and he didn't shy away from Gil at all—"

"Bloody-hell, Francis! Slow down!" Arthur interrupted. He took a deep breath, indicating that Francis should do the same. "Firstly, is Feliciano going to be okay? Good. Secondly, you should have started training Matthew a week ago. I told you so, you were wrong and I was right," he bragged in victory. "And thirdly, is it you think Matthew gets along so well with Gilbert?"

Francis shrugged, clueless. "I have no idea. I've been so careful with Mathieu. I'm polite and thoughtful, the perfect gentleman. Gil's loud and obnoxious and he gets into everyone else's business. You should have seen how he just grabbed Mathieu without permission. He's—"

"Alfred," Arthur finished. "Gilbert is just like Alfred, that's why Matthew's comfortable with him. It's because he's familiar. Matthew is quiet and passive and quite shy. He's not used to all the attention you're giving him, Francis. He doesn't want to be spoiled. He's too used to being the support, not the centre-of-attention; he's the shadow, not the light. He's not afraid of loud people with big personalities. In fact, I think he prefers them."

Francis was about to reply, when Al called:

"He's right."

He opened the bedroom door a crack and peeked inside. He smiled in apology for eavesdropping and then stepped in. "Mattie doesn't do subtle. If you leave him alone he'll only reciprocate. Listen," he said, staring seriously at Francis, "I'm really worried about Matt so I'm going to help you. I'm going to tell you a secret: you _have_ to force him. I know you want to be gentlemanly, but that's not going to work on Matt. You have to make the first move, Francis, and if he doesn't respond then you have to keep pushing. He can be goaded into doing almost anything if you're persistent enough. I'm serious, you've got to grab him and not let go. Mattie's not a leader, he's a follower. He'll do whatever he's told. If you can earn his trust," Al said, "then I guarantee he'll never leave you and he'll never disappoint you. He'll be the best damn friend you've ever had. That's the thing about Matt," he added affectionately, "he's always there to help others, but he never asks for help himself. That's why you can't be afraid to take control of him. Seriously, Francis, my brother's like a dog." He glanced pointedly at Arthur. "If you don't show him who's boss, then he's just going to ignore you."

Francis stared at Al in disbelief. "You've _got_ to be kidding me."

"Nope. Matt needs leadership. He needs to be told what to do. And don't think that he'll hate you," Al added. "It's not in his nature to be petty. He doesn't hate anyone, not even people who deserve it. I've said this before: Matt's the most forgiving person I know. But he needs strength. He respects strength. And I think you've got that, Francis, so show him."

Francis glanced at Arthur, who merely shrugged. He shook his head. "Let me get this straight," he said. "You, Alfred, actually _want_ me to _force_ your twin-brother into obeying me?"

Al sighed. "I'm not doing this for you, okay? I'm doing it for Mattie. He's sick and you're the only person who can help him, Francis. That being said"—his face suddenly darkened and his eyes clouded, looking rather dangerous; his hands crackled with electricity—"if you _ever_ use what I've just told you to hurt or take advantage of my brother, I'll fucking kill you."

Francis swallowed. "Thank-you, Alfred."

* * *

**MATTHEW**

Matt hugged a pillow and hid beneath the duvet like a frightened child. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and focused on breathing. He was trying hard to meditate, trying to clear his mind, but he couldn't. He couldn't focus on anything besides the terrible storm brewing inside of him, screaming to be released. He felt self-destructive. Horrible, suicidal thoughts kept leaping to the forefront of his mind. He moaned in agony as he tried to keep the storm at bay:

"AH!"

_Just make it stop_!

"Mathieu?"

Matt felt Francis' weight sit down on the bed. He felt the Frenchman's hand clench his shoulder through the duvet covering.

"Mathieu, please talk to me." Without warning, he pulled the duvet off, leaving Matt exposed. Matt hugged the pillow tighter and buried his head. "Hey, that wasn't a request," Francis said, shaking Matt's shoulder. "Come on, look at me." He grabbed the pillow and ripped it away, then lifted the boy's head. Matt kept his eyes squeezed shut. He could feel frozen tears clumping his eyelashes. Francis said: "Don't be afraid, Mathieu. I just want you to talk to me. Tell me what's wrong. Open your eyes, _chéri_, I'm not leaving until you do. Mathieu," he said sternly. "_Look. At. Me._"

Matt opened his eyes, but it was short-lived. "No! Please get away!" He struggled, but Francis held him firm. "Please, let me go! I can't—AH!" Matt bowed forward, grabbing fistfuls of Francis' shirt. Vaguely, he could feel Francis squeezing his shoulders, talking urgently, but Matt shook his head. "No!"

"Mathieu, focus on my voice. Just listen to me, you're alright. Forget about everything else and just focus on me." He took Matt's face between his hands. "It's just you and I, _chéri_. Nothing else exists, okay?"

Matt's lip trembled and tears beaded in his eyes. Francis' eyes, however, were bottomless pools; such a pretty shade of blue. He looked concerned. _Concerned for me_. Matt focused on Francis' face. He studied it: his straight nose and high cheekbones; long, silvery eyelashes; and his flawless suntanned skin. So close, Matt could see the day-long hairs on the Frenchman's chin. Then his eyes strayed to Francis' full lips, which were talking softly:

"Just breathe," he ordered. His voice was commanding and unlike his usual, indulgent tone, but Matt found it soothing. It lent him guidance. "It's just you and I, Mathieu. There's nothing to be afraid of. You're safe. Now tell me what's wrong. I want to help you, _chéri_, so tell me exactly how you're feeling."

Matt inhaled. His voice shook: "It f-feels c-cold and l-loud, like I'm s-standing in a b-blizzard. I hear it all the t-time. It's driving me m-mad. I f-feel like I'm h-holding onto a s-storm and if I l-let go it'll—" He gasped, biting back a sob. Francis rubbed his back and nodded in encouragement. "I feel so alone," Matt whispered. "And it hurts so much. I feel lost. Forgotten. Abandoned." Francis wiped tears from Matt's cheeks, but they continued to fall. Before he knew what was happening, he was hugging Francis and sobbing. "Help me!" he begged, shaking in grief.

Terrified, Matt let go of his pride and said:

"_Francis_, _please help me_!"

* * *

**FRANCIS**

Francis took Matt outside. Ignoring Matt's protests—the boy shrieked wildly in French (it was the loudest that Francis had ever heard him speak)—he half-carried, half-dragged the boy into the hallway, unconcerned with the icy trail they left or the neighbours' puzzled (and horrified) faces. He snapped rudely at the guards, who cursed and leapt back in shock, drawing their weapons defensively. They yelled and shivered as a gust of arctic wind chilled them, but Francis didn't stop to explain or ask permission. He didn't slow his pace. He knew what it was that Matt needed now, exactly what Bjørn had told him:

"_He needs to expend some energy before he breaks_."

"Francis, please stop!" Matt begged.

He was in pain and his voice sounded so desperate that Francis almost ceded. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt Matt. His instincts wanted to protect Matt, shield him from hurt, not torment him further. But he steeled himself, and said:

"No, it's for your own good."

He stopped in the garden beside the pond. He wanted to go farther away from the facility, but Matt's whole body was convulsing. Francis had to hold him up, bracing the boy's weight. This would have to do.

"It's late, nobody's here," he promised. "Nobody's going to get hurt so just let go, Mathieu. Let the magic go."

Matt shook his head, forehead pressed against Francis' chest. He clenched the Frenchman's shoulders. "No!" he gasped. "Not while you're here, you'll get hurt—"

"Mathieu, don't argue with me!" Francis snapped. He hated the sound of his voice when he yelled; he hated how Matt flinched. But he soldiered on: "Just do as I say and let it go. I'll be fine." He lifted Matt's head. "I know you won't hurt me. I'm not afraid. Please do this for me. Please trust me and just let go."

Matt screamed.

It was like being inside an ice-vortex. Every particle of moisture froze instantly, exploding into a blizzard of snow and ice. Francis held Matt in the middle of a white-out, wind blowing in a spiral that covered everything a mile-wide in a layer of snow. The jungle-gym, the trees, the pond: everything froze. Matt screamed in release. Burning-cold ice coated his skin and then shattered. It stung Francis' skin, cutting it. He bled. Then, as instantaneously as it had happened, it stopped. The wind died, the snow fell, and Matt's agonized scream stopped and he completely collapsed. For a second, Francis thought that the boy had fainted, but soon Matt opened his violet eyes. Weakly, he said:

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, Mathieu. Are you—?"

Francis lifted Matt into his arms and carried him to a snow-covered bench. He sat down with the boy on his lap. He felt Matt's forehead and took his pulse, searching for signs of malady. Matt's body was exhausted, having just expelled a fortnight of emotional and physical energy in an instant. But the pain and grief were gone from Matt's tear-streaked face. He looked tired, but relieved. "Mathieu?" Francis inquired, feeling exhausted, too. But Matt had already passed-out with his head on Francis' shoulder.

The Magnus didn't move for a long time, despite the chill. He sat there holding his unconscious Magi like an overprotective bodyguard with his ward. It felt good. For the first time since Francis had known him, Matt's body felt human. And for the first time in seven years, Francis felt like a real Magnus. _I knew it_, he thought, leaning against the bench. _I knew that you and I were meant to be together_,_ Mathieu. Bonded or not_,_ I've never felt like this before._ He closed his eyes and rested a hand on Matt's waist while the other gently stroked the boy's curls. It soothed them both. Francis would never tell Matt that he had been scared—_terrified_,_ actually_. Without knowing what the consequences would be, he had taken Al's advice and risked Matt's unstable reaction. He had grabbed him and refused to let go. _I'll never let go of you_,_ Mathieu_, _I promise_. Matt's confession of feeling lost and forgotten had cut Francis unexpectedly deep. He had never felt so desperately sad for another person before, or so guilty.

_I can't believe how much you were suffering_, _Mathieu_. _I'm so sorry I didn't help you. I'll never let you feel that way again. I want to see you smile_,_ darling. I want you to feel safe and happy. I'll never leave you_,_ Mathieu_,_ I promise_. _ I want you to always feel—_"loved."

* * *

It was dawn before Matt finally opened his eyes, a full thirteen hours since he had passed-out in the garden. He awoke slowly. He looked beautiful in the pale morning sunlight that coloured his face, cheeks rosy with health. Finally, after weeks, he looked rested. He blushed coyly when he realized he was lying snug against Francis' side, nestled beneath the Frenchman's languid arm in bed. He pushed himself up, his eyelashes lowered over violet eyes, and said: "Did you sleep at all?"

"No," Francis replied. "I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"Oh." Matt bit his bottom lip, which was red and swollen as if he had just been kissed. He looked dishevelled in a husky way that Francis liked. Inadvertently, Matt's eyes lingered on the Frenchman's face, his fatigued pallor and the raw cuts on his skin. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "About last night, I—"

"Are you feeling better, Mathieu?" It was obvious that he was, but Francis used concern as an excuse to touch Matt's cheek. "I've decided to start our training today. I have an idea that I think you'll like," he added cryptically, eyes dancing. "But first..." He leant forward and took Matt's hands. The boy blinked in confusion and shied away. Soberly, Francis said: "I need you to forgive me. I should have been a better Magnus to you, Mathieu. A better friend. I'm so very sorry you felt lost and alone, that you were suffering so much—"

"Maple," Matt interrupted. Francis blinked in misunderstanding and cocked his head. Matt smiled. "Maple cookies are my favourite flavour."

Dumbstruck, Francis only nodded. His heart leapt joyfully. He couldn't believe how happy those six, simple words suddenly made him feel, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

In gratitude, he squeezed Matt's hand. "Yes, _chéri_. I'll remember that."


	6. Chapter Six

**DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya**

**BIRDSONG**

* * *

**SIX**

**ALFRED**

Al squinted and cocked his head. He bit his lip thoughtfully as he scanned the chess-board, reached forward, and then stopped. Finally, after much consideration, he moved his queen. Seconds later he realized his mistake. Arthur moved his bishop, took Al's queen, and declared: "Checkmate."

"Fuck," said Al dejectedly. "How'd you do that, Artie? You're like a chess-wizard or something."

Arthur rolled his eyes and leant back. "It's just practice," but there was a note of pride in his tone. "You've got to learn to think strategically, Alfred. Magic, and yours specifically, is very fast-paced so you've got to stay three steps ahead all the time. You've got to learn how to make fast, sensible decisions. You're still playing too slowly," he added, gesturing to the chessboard. "You're taking too long to think."

"Oh, who cares? Once we're bonded you'll be calling all the shots. I'm just the gun, you've got the trigger."

"Lovely metaphor," said Arthur sarcastically. He stood and collected both teacups and took them to the sink. From the kitchenette, he said: "I've decided to give you a bit of a break today. We're not going out to the garden, we're going to the gym for some strength training instead. No cardio today."

Al pumped his fist in victory. "Yes! Finally something I'm actually good at!"

Al had always been strong for his age. He had always loved contact-sports that required a degree of physical strength, like boxing and wrestling, wherein a feat of strength and skill won victory. Matt was the one built for cardio, not Al. Matt could run and jump and dodge and climb forever. His body was built for it, made of lightweight lean muscle with fast reflexes. He liked fast sports that required speed and agility, as well as strength. Matt liked American football because he could run and dodge attacks; Al liked it because he could clobber people. Matt liked ice-hockey because it was fierce and fast and needed hand-eye coordination; Al like it because he could clobber people. Matt liked lacrosse because he could race and catch and hit people with sticks; Al liked it because he could clobber people—with sticks. They were both athletic and, whatever the sport was, they were both competitive. Together, they made an unstoppable team.

_If Matt had been with me then there's no way we would've lost to Yao and Kiku_, he thought, still sore about losing the sparring-match.

Arthur took Al to the fourth floor gymnasium. It was a large arena-like space with glass windows that faced the mountain peak. It was crowded with nets and training equipment; a court for playing indoor sports, including a rock-wall for climbing; and, judging by the scent of chlorine, a swimming pool next-door. It was a state-of-the-art facility, open twenty-four hours a day. Arthur admitted to spending a lot of time here when he had first arrived at the Birdcage. It was a good way to relieve stress, he claimed. Al thought that it looked like a good place to show-off. In a fighting-ring in the corner, Yao and Kiku were practicing hand-to-hand combat.

"Do you think if I asked them they would teach me those wicked ninja moves?" Al asked, striking a pose.

Arthur lifted an eyebrow. "Not likely."

He took Al to a chin-up bar. "Let's see how strong those arms are." He smacked Al's bicep good-naturedly. "I want to see how many chin-ups you can do in a minute," he said as Al got into position, gripping the bar. "Don't strain yourself, I just want to test your upper-body strength. Chin-ups are hard, so don't feel compelled to impress. Just do as many as you... uh... can."

"Something wrong, Artie?" Al said, lifting himself with ease.

One, two, three... nine, ten, eleven... nineteen, twenty, twenty-one...

Discretely, Al grinned. He felt powerful: _this_ was his element. "Aren't you going to start the timer?" he asked. He couldn't help acting cocky. The look on Arthur's bewildered face, green eyes watching him in fascinated disbelief, made him feel good.

"Oh! Yes, I'll just... Remember, I said not to strain yourself!"

"I know," Al answered casually, breathing easy. Arthur sounded more winded than Al did. "Don't worry. I'm good at this, Artie." And he winked.

* * *

**ARTHUR**

Okay, that's enough. That was, uh... good," Arthur said, feeling flustered.

He tried not to stare as Al leapt down and stretched his sweaty, taut, bronze muscles. _Stop staring_,_ he's only fifteen_! _He's just a lad_! He tried to focus his gaze elsewhere, but it was useless._ I can't believe he's only fifteen_. Already the North American was bigger than the Englishman. If not taller yet, then broader. Arthur had a well-trained body and a high-metabolism, but he was lean. Al, however, possessed teenage muscles that would undoubtedly grow as he got older, defining into the sort of figure women drooled over. He was—would be—an excellent specimen of the male gender. Absently, Arthur bit his lip.

"So," Al smiled, bouncing energetically from one foot to the other. "What's next? Hey, Artie—?"

Arthur blinked and shook his head. He chucked Al a towel, and said: "Weight training. This way."

Arthur played spotter for Al as he pumped heavy, iron weights up and down, flexing those beautiful, tanned biceps. So close, he could smell the boy's sweat and see beads of it sliding over his skin.

_Oh_,_ fuck. Maybe this wasn't the best idea_, he thought, feeling suddenly warm. _What's wrong with me_? _He's just a kid. Just a loud-mouth_,_ self-indulgent_, _obnoxious brat_!_ Oh_,_ but he's such a good-looking brat_...

They worked-out together for two hours before Arthur called a break for his own sake, not Al's. He despised strength training. His forte was strategy and durability, withstanding pain and outlasting the enemy by utilizing his resources. He was clever and good at out-witting his opponent. He was not physically powerful, nor forceful. His body was not made to lift weights. Despite his years of training, he struggled to keep up with Al: the fifteen-year-old.

"_Ah_!" he gasped. Lying on his back, he couldn't push up the bar. His arms shook from the strain. Al grabbed it before it crushed him. _Oh God_,_ why don't I just take off my clothes and have a bloody nightmare_? he thought in embarrassment. He took Al's offered hand and sat up. "Cheers," he said breathlessly.

"No problem," Al smiled. "Here." He tossed Arthur a bottle of water. He held his own bottle overhead and let water pour into his open mouth, then wiped his chin. "So, uh... Arthur?" He hesitated. "I, uh... know that you probably don't care, but the day after tomorrow is my birthday. Mattie and I will be sixteen."

"Oh, your birthday?" Arthur brightened. _He's going to be sixteen_, _that's perfectly legal_—He stopped. Vowing that he and Al would never work-out together again (_it gives me weird thoughts_), he smiled and said: "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"Well, I wanted to," Al admitted. Arthur got the impression that Al had been biting his tongue, holding in his excitement for a while."But I wasn't sure if you celebrated birthdays here. Mattie and I always spend the whole day together because our parents aren't... well, they don't really care about birthdays. They were never home in July." He shrugged. "Anyway, I know that my training is really important, but I thought that, maybe, if I asked really nicely," he smiled hopefully, "you'd give me the day off? We're going to be sixteen. It's kind of important, you know?"

"Oh, I... sure," said Arthur thoughtlessly. The boy looked so happy. He couldn't have said no even if he had wanted to. He didn't want to be the killjoy that the other Magnus accused him of, training his Magi too hard. Like Al's parents, Arthur's family had never celebrated birthdays, but Al's enthusiasm seemed to stem from something more than conceited youth. It wasn't about having a day dedicated to himself. Al had called it _important_ and looked rather thoughtful. It was the boy's pride that Arthur he respected—and that dazzling, pearly-white smile.

_One day off of training won't hurt_, _not if it makes him happy_. _He'll be sixteen_,_ after all. It should be special_.

* * *

**MATTHEW**

Francis held Matt's arm like a gentleman in escort. The boy tried to pull away, but the Frenchman insisted. Like Al, he was a physically affectionate person; Matt wondered why he had never noticed it before. _I suppose it's because he was keeping his distance from me before. Because he was afraid of me—_? Matt wondered. Regardless, since Francis had forced Matt to use his powers, the Frenchman had simply stopped asking permission. Whether he wanted to hug Matt or bake him cookies, he simply did it without asking. It was, admittedly, a little intrusive. Matt was not used to anyone besides Al acting that way with him, but it wasn't entirely unpleasant._ At least he's not afraid of me anymore._

Francis took Matt into the garden to the pond, chatting absently about the weather and what a fine summer day it was; how the flowers were blooming and how the birds and bees were singing in harmony. Matt rolled his eyes, thinking Francis too poetic, but he enjoyed the breeze and the sinuous sound of the Frenchman's voice nonetheless. At the snaking pond, the Magnus stopped.

"It's a perfect day," he smiled pleasantly. "Now, I want you to freeze it all."

Matt blinked. "_Pardon_?"

Francis chuckled, as if he had anticipated Matt's reaction. Despite his cavalier attitude, he was rather good at reading people. Besides Al, Francis seemed to be the only person with any inkling as to what Matt was feeling. He said:

"You're anxious about your magic, the raw power of it, but you don't dislike the cold, do you, Mathieu? I bet you enjoy winter, the physical change of the seasons? That's what I want you to focus on," he explained. "Ice is just frozen water and water is everywhere. It's in the air and in our bodies, but let's start with the obvious." He pointed to the pond. "Your magic has the potential to effect every living thing, that's what makes it so dangerous, because it's so readily available. That's what's been pissing everyone off so much, because they can feel the change in the atmosphere when you use your magic. In theory, you could freeze the blood in their veins. But we're not going to do that yet, uh... ever," he added quickly, noting Matt's horrified face. "All I want you to do is focus on the pond. Go ahead, _chéri_."

Gently, he nudged Matt forward.

Matt could sense the water molecules all around him. They were heavy and slow-moving. He could visualize them, and suddenly freezing them all instantaneously seemed like such an easy thing. But he couldn't do it like before; he couldn't just let go. Francis wanted him to control it. _Just freeze the pond_, he concentrated.

"Close your eyes if it helps," Francis suggested. "Don't focus on the present. Try to visualize what it will look like in the future covered in ice, as in winter time. Put everything to sleep. Slow down the molecules until they freeze. _C'est bon_, _Mathieu_. _Très bien_!" Then he chuckled, and said: "You can open your eyes now."

Matt opened his eyes and realized that he was standing on the pond, which was frozen solid. He smiled back at Francis. "I did it!" Giddily, he threw-out his arms and spun in a circle, sliding over the ice. "I actually did it!"

"Yes," said Francis, stepping cautiously onto the ice. He slipped, arms wind-milling for balance, then quickly composed himself. "You don't give yourself enough credit, Mathieu. You're very—_Ah_! Very talented and you have a naturally cool-headed demeanor. You don't panic. I bet you're logical in a crisis, aren't you? That's good." He reached for Matt and grabbed his shoulders, his shoes sliding on the ice. "In order to practise control, I thought that we could have a game. You like games, yes?" Clumsily, he gestured to the hockey sticks he had stashed aside.

Matt's face lit-up in excitement. _Oh_,_ yes_! he thought, feeling fueled. "But we don't have any skates."

Francis gently kicked the edge of Matt's shoe. "You're going to provide the skates. Sculpt them from ice," he clarified. "It'll test your ability to multitask. While we're skating you'll have to maintain the ice's molecular structure and keep it sharp so that we don't fall—_Ah_! _Merde_!" He clenched Matt's shoulders. "Anytime you're ready, Mathieu."

Matt pictured a sharp skate's blade and, just like sculpting, he chiseled that shape from the ice and froze it to the bottom of his shoes, creating makeshift skates. It wasn't as clean or stable as metal, of course—stopping might be a challenge—but he kicked-off and circled the pond, laughing happily. "This is _so awesome_! I love that I can do this! Here, Francis—Whoops, sorry!" he called, catching Francis as the Frenchman fell forward. "Sorry, I got over-excited."

"It's alright, _chéri_. As long as you promise to catch me when I fall."

Beneath the guise of playing hockey, they trained Matt's magic. Francis drilled Matt as a coach would, which felt familiar. He sped up and slowed down, focusing on his hand-eye coordination as he caught the pucks shot at him, while maintaining the ice-rink itself (it was a _very_ hot summer day). But Matt found it surprisingly easy.

"It's because you're not afraid anymore. You're having fun," Francis said.

Matt agreed. _I am having fun. A lot of fun_! He had been unable to exercise his body like this for nearly three weeks and it felt good. Moving fast, feeling a cold breeze on his face felt good. _This is something I'm good at_, he knew. _This is what I'm built for._ Teasingly, he circled Francis and showed-off, doing effortless figure-eights. As they played, he got the feeling from Francis' clumsy reflexes that ice-skating was not his favourite pastime, which only made Matt appreciate the Frenchman more.

_He's doing all of this for me_,_ because he knew I'd like it._ _Thank-you_,_ Francis_. _This is exactly what I needed_.

In gratitude, Matt held out his hands.

"Here," he said to Francis, who took them. Matt skated backwards and pulled the Magnus with him, guiding him. In surprise—afraid of falling, perhaps—Francis clenched Matt's hands. Matt smiled. "Don't be afraid. Just relax, _chéri_," he mocked Francis' indulgent tone. He increased his speed and spun in a circle. "I'm not going to let you fall."

The tension eased from Francis' body and he stared unabashedly at Matt and smiled. "I know you won't."

The boy flushed, but before he could answer:

"Cool! Did you do this, Matt? This is fucking awesome!" Gilbert shouted, jogging over. Eyeing the discarded hockey sticks, he said: "Can I play, too? Hey, Mikkel!" he yelled, waving at the Norsemen. Mikkel's silver-blonde head poked up when he heard his name. He was straddling Bjørn's middle in the grass. Matt _assumed_ they were training, though he supposed they could just as easily be doing other things; except that Bjørn looked quiteunhappy. "If you're done groping Bjørn, I'll kick your Danish ass at ice-hockey!" Gilbert challenged, pointing to the pond. "What do you say?"

"Team Denmark versus Team Germany? Bring it on!" Mikkel pulled Bjørn up and dragged him to the pond.

Gilbert was relaying the rules of a four-on-four match when Berwald and Tino wandered over, intrigued by the noise.

"Oh, wow!" Tino's big, round eyes lit in wonderment as he surveyed the ice-cove Matt had created. "This is so pretty! Could we"—he glanced at his tsundere Magnus for permission—"play as well? I really love ice-hockey! And I'm pretty good at it," he boasted.

"Yeah," said Gilbert, the self-appointed Captain of Team Germany.

"Actually," said Francis, keeping a hand on Matt's shoulder for balance, "I think it's a great idea! It'll be good practise for you, Mathieu. You'll have to keep six people on skates instead of two. And hopefully they'll be enough of a challenge"—he gestured to the other North-borns, grinning competitively—"to serve as a distraction. Your magic is what's keeping the ice solid, remember. If you lose focus it'll crack and you'll all fall in—_Ah_! I'll just watch from the sidelines," he said, regaining his balance (seizing the opportunity to escape). "Otherwise the teams won't be even," he added, feigning self-sacrifice. "Don't worry about me, I'll just—_Merde_!"

The North-borns snickered as Francis flailed, but Matt's smile was genuinely affectionate. Francis—suave, sexy, sophisticated Francis—was so (adorably) clumsy on ice. The Frenchman reached the shore's safety and kicked the ice off his shoes. When he saw Matt watching him, he waved confidently.

_You've really been trying to help me_, Matt smiled in reply. _You really are an incredibly decent person_. _You just want me to be happy_,_ don't you_?_ You're a good friend_,_ Francis._

* * *

**FRANCIS**

Francis smiled as he watched Matt skate, he couldn't help it. The boy was good. _He's amazing_,_ memorizing_. Francis might have been the one forced to take dance lessons, but Matt's body moved like an elegant whip on ice. His slender body, wearing only a long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans, sped across the pond, agile and balanced; unafraid of falling or injury; unafraid or his bigger opponents. _This is a brutal game_, Francis thought as Mikkel and Berwald collided, hitting the ice hard. But Matt loved it, and for once it was obvious. _His smile is beautiful_, Francis thought, feeling proud. The others noticed it, too: the boy's smile was contagious. They shouted and laughed, tackling Matt in victory; chasing him; catching him and spinning him around. He had been so cold before, but now his violet eyes looked soft. _He's so beautiful_, Francis amended, smiling secretly. _And he's mine._

Flushed and sweating, laughing and shoving each other, they finished the game (disputing the victory) and went inside for supper. The atmosphere was lively and centred around Matt for once. The window-table that usually sat four was crowded as everyone talked loudly and exchanged stories. Al was sorry that he had missed the game, but it did not keep him from joining the conversation. At first, Francis was afraid that Al's big, boisterous personality would drown Matt in this large a crowd, that Matt would automatically sink into the background, but he didn't. This time, he couldn't. Everyone was focused on him: his hockey skills, his magic, and how much fun playing with him had been. Lars sat beside him, promising that he would play tomorrow if he could be on Matt's team, while Gilbert loudly protested, proclaiming that Matt was his partner, which embarrassed the boy. He laughed and bowed his head, but his violet eyes were smiling. It made Francis' heart feel light knowing that his Magi was happy.

_You're not alone_, _Mathieu. I promise that you'll never feel alone again_.

"You're grinning, frog-eater," said Arthur, who was standing beside him in the queue. He snapped his fingers to get Francis' attention. "That was an interesting teaching technique, playing hockey, but you can't spend every day playing games," he criticised. "You just can't resist spoiling your Magis, can you?"

Francis shrugged, unperturbed. "Why shouldn't I? It's actually really good practise and he loves it. Just look at how happy he is." He nodded in Matt's direction. "He's fifteen, he _should_ be having fun."

"Maybe, but he won't be fifteen for much longer," said Arthur. Francis cocked his head in misunderstanding. "The day after tomorrow is Alfred and Matthew's sixteenth birthday."

"Oh, sixteen?" Francis repeated, trying to sound casual. "Sixteen is"—_perfectly legal_—"a good age."

"Yes," Arthur agreed. "It is, isn't it? A perfectly good age."

They shared a knowing glance, then looked quickly away. Arthur licked his lips. "So anyway, I was talking to Alfred about his birthday and he seems pretty excited about it. He and Matthew always spend the day together, so I gave him the day off training. He told me that whichever one of them wakes up first wakes the other up in an unruly fashion (presumably by jumping on him), but they no longer live together. Alfred won't be the first person Matthew sees on his birthday this year, it'll be you," he said, nodding at Francis. "And Alfred will only have me."

Francis folded his arms, intrigued by the Englishman's self-conscious tone. "Just what are you implying? That _we_ should jump on them instead? I'm not opposed, but somehow I don' think he'd find that funny," he said sarcastically.

"No, of course not. Bloody git." Arthur rolled his eyes. "I'm only telling you because I didn't think Matthew would. I just thought it might be nice if you somehow acknowledged his birthday, that's all. It's been a very trying few weeks for them both and they... well, they deserve to be spoiled. Maybe. Just a little," he conceded. "It's their sixteenth birthday, after all. They deserve to feel... special."

"Special?" Francis looked at Matt, who was wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. He fought playfully as Gilbert pulled him into a headlock; as Lars ruffled his hair; feigning distress as he reached for Al, who struck a heroic pose. It was then that Matt opened his beautiful violet eyes and looked—accidentally—at Francis. And Francis' heart leapt.

"Yes," he said softly. "Making him feel special is definitely something I can do."

* * *

**ALFRED**

**TWO DAYS LATER**

For once Al awoke early. "Happy birthday to me!" he yawned, stretching his arms across the bed. Ever since he had realized how _comfortable_ it was sleeping beside Arthur, Al had agreed to share the bed—begrudgingly, of course. He called it convenience and claimed that the couch hurt his back, too short for his height. As he stretched, however, he realized that Arthur was not there. His side of the bed was cold. It felt strange waking up alone, especially on his birthday. Al and Matt always slept together the night before their birthday so they could wake up together. But despite the broken tradition, Al was determined to be cheerful today. He got up and showered, then dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, and wandered into the kitchenette in search of food. "Of course not," he sighed. _Arthur rarely keeps food in the apartment_,_ but Francis always does_! _And Mattie needs a birthday hug_! Happily he bounced to the apartment door, which opened before he touched it.

"Oh, Alfred—sorry," said Arthur. "I, err... wasn't expecting you to be awake so early."

Al blinked. The Magnus looked flustered, freckled cheeks blushing in surprise. He was holding something behind his back like a child, which somehow made him look younger. _He almost looks wholesome_, Al thought as he studied the Englishman. His wheat-blonde hair was in slight disarray and he was wearing a sweater-vest over a collared shirt, which would have looked dorky—_like a schoolboy_—on anyone else, but on Arthur it looked right. It suited his lean figure and slender legs, which were shoved into customarily tight trousers. Al swallowed, feeling suddenly hot. He liked the way Arthur looked when he was playing intimidation: shirtsleeves shoved up and buttons undone, with his feather-soft hair brushed back. But he couldn't deny that this innocent-looking Arthur—_a word I never thought I'd use to describe him_—was rather sexy, too. _He looks almost cute_.

The Englishman lifted his Lincoln-green eyes, and said: "I meant to be back by the time you awoke."

"Oh, that's okay," said Al, staring.

"I expect that you're off to see Matthew?" Arthur guessed. "Sixteen suits you, you look... good today," he said. Hurrying on, he added: "You'll have to forgive me, but the Birdcage doesn't exactly have a gift shop, so I..." Blushing like a nervous high-schooler, he pulled a big, unopened jar of peanut-butter from behind his back. It was tied clumsily with a ribbon. "Happy birthday, Alfred."

Delighted, Al took the jar and impulsively threw his arms around Arthur in a hug. He held on for a little too long, but Arthur hugged him back.

"Thanks, Artie."

* * *

**MATTHEW**

Matt slept soundly. Since he and Francis had started sharing the bed, he always awoke feeling rested and unafraid of nightmares. It was embarrassing when he found himself hugging the Frenchman in sleep (it was only habit, Matt had always hugged things in his sleep: pillows and stuffed toys), but Francis never complained or verbally commented. Al had never minded it, and Matt was secretly relieved that Francis didn't seem to either. Sighing softly, he blinked sleep from his eyes and found himself wrapped in the Frenchman's inviting, one-armed embrace. He was sleeping—he liked to sleep-in late—and leaning on a mountain of pillows. His silky ash-blonde curls were spread out, his day-long beard catching the morning light, and his full lips parted as he breathed. He looked bedraggled, wearing a sleeveless white t-shirt that revealed his shoulders, collarbone, and long, shapely arms. _His skin is such a pretty colour_, Matt mused. It was not pale, but it was less tanned than the other Mediterranean natives. Francis' skin looked like pale-gold, softly kissed by the sun. _He's always warm_. Matt snuggled closer, drawn toward Francis' body-heat. Matt's skin was always cold and he hoped it didn't make Francis uncomfortable when they slept so close.

It was then that Francis awoke. "_Bonjour_, _chéri_."

Quickly, Matt rolled back to his side of the bed. "Oh, good morning," he murmured, facing opposite.

He flinched when the Frenchman's lips pressed to his cheek and produced a high-pitched noise in surprise. Francis chucked. Matt could feel it as the Frenchman's body leant closer. Matt curled into a defensive ball, and said: "What was that for?"

"Why didn't you tell me that today is your sixteenth birthday?" Francis asked, his voice husky. He laughed as he wrapped his arms around Matt, hugging him back-to-chest. Matt wriggled, but Francis held him. "If you weren't such an early-riser, I would've gotten up first to make you breakfast. That's what we always did for each other in Italy, but you've ruined my special birthday surprise!" he whined. Playfully, he nuzzled Matt's neck, making the boy laugh. "I guess you'll just have to make it up to me by letting me spoil you all day, Mathieu.

"_Bonne fête_, _chéri_."

* * *

Happy birthday, Mattie!" Al launched himself at Matt, who caught him. Together they spiraled in half-a-dozen circles, laughing like children, before they got dizzy and collapsed against the island-counter. Matt jumped up and kicked his legs against the cupboards; Al stood between his legs, hands braced on the counter's edge. They were in the fifth floor communal kitchen because Francis had insisted on making the boys breakfast. He stood at the stovetop, swatting at Arthur, who was making suggestions. Al lowered his voice, and said:

"Mattie, I think you and I should cook supper for everyone tonight. You know, to celebrate our birthday and to apologize for causing so much trouble lately. You can be my sous-chef and, like, grate cheese and stuff," he smiled, belittling Matt's cooking talents. Matt was not a terrible cook, but both of them knew that Al was better.

"Yeah, okay," Matt agreed. "What do you want to make?"

Before Al could reply, Feliciano charged into the kitchen. "_Buon compleanno_!" he shouted, kissing both of Al's cheeks. "Francis told Antonio, who told Lovino, who told me that you're both sixteen today! _Buon compleanno_!" he repeated, kissing Matt. "You have to let me bake dessert for you tonight, I'll make something really special for my new friends!"

It was good to see Feliciano looking so lively. Matt had not seen him since the incident in the bathhouse and he still felt guilty about it.

"Matt, what's wrong? Don't you like dessert?" the Italian asked, brow furrowed.

"Of course he does," Al piped-up. "Mattie's sweet-tooth is legendary, he loves dessert."

Matt nodded. "Yeah, I do. But listen, Feliciano, I never got the chance to apologize for before. I'm sorry that you got hurt, I didn't mean to—"

"Oh, that's okay. It was an accident," Feliciano dismissed. He was barely listening. "Antonio!" he greeted as the Spaniard walked in. Lovino followed, his shoulders slumped lazily.

"_Feliz cumpleaños_," Antonio said to the twins. "Oh, Francis, you're making breakfast for them? Let me help."

"Wait, wait," said Arthur as he was shouldered aside. "Why is it that he can help, but I can't?"

Francis and Antonio, talking rapidly in excitement, ignored him. Together they cooked way too much food, but it smelled wonderful: sugary pastries, eggs in ripe sauces, breakfast meat, and fresh fruit. Al extended an open invitation to every Magnus and Magi in the Birdcage, and Matt suddenly found himself in the centre of a crushing group-hug as big, North-born hockey-players lifted him off his feet. Yao and Kiku wished the twins good-luck on their birthday, and Feliks ruffled Matt's curls while Eliza kissed Al's cheek. Even Sadik clapped a hand on Matt's shoulder and apologized for having yelled at him in the common-room.

After everyone had eaten their fill, Gilbert said: "I've got an awesome idea. Let's have a game of ice-hockey. What'd you think, Matt? Can you make us a rink?"

Matt looked to Francis for permission, who smiled in encouragement.

Outside July was sweltering, but Matt worked his magic and froze the pond. He struggled to sculpt skates for everyone: "Oh, sorry Toris!" he said when the Lithuanian fell. "I've never maintained the ice for this many people."

Arthur was about to relate sagely advice, but Francis stepped in. Gently he took Matt's shoulders, and said: "It's okay, _chéri_. Just take your time and try again."

"Since it's _my_ birthday everyone has to play!" Al decreed. Cheekily, he elbowed Arthur, who forced a smile. "Don't worry, you can be on my team, Artie," he said. "My team doesn't lose!"

* * *

**ARTHUR**

Soon an aggressive game of ice-hockey was underway: Al's Team versus Matt's Team. It was fast-paced and violent and nobody followed the official rules: they just laughed and shouted and tackled each other. It was brutal. Arthur kept to the sidelines, trying to avoid direct confrontation. It failed, however, when he lost his balance and crashed into Francis, who slipped and fell backwards. They hit the ice hard and, seconds later, Antonio joined them. Francis grunted at the added weight as Lovino tripped and crowned the pile. He groaned, and said: "I hate this stupid game. On my birthday, we're playing football." The others agreed and crawled to safety.

"I think it's fun!" sang Feliciano, sandwiched between Gilbert and Ludwig. He clutched each German's hand as they pulled him, looking like a damsel between two bodyguards.

Al and Matt, however, fought the fiercest, both determined to out-play the other at scoring and skating. They raced and body-checked each other, shoving and punching and whipping sticks. They yelled personal insults that both surprised and amused the Eurasians, showing a competitive spirit that Arthur had not been expecting. Al had been hot-blooded from day one. He seemed to have a fetish for victory and playing the hero, but he was usually gentler with Matt. _If Alfred slows down though_,_ he'll get clobbered_, Arthur realized. He never would have guessed that Matt could be just as competitive as Al, just as wild. But it was Al whom he was watching; such a blatant display of testosterone. _That one has the warrior-spirit_, his older brother would have said. Arthur smiled. The game was for fun, of course—the twins were laughing—but Arthur's heart was pounding as he watched, feeling both aroused and ashamed. What made it worse was that Francis seemed to know exactly what Arthur was thinking.

To distract himself, Arthur started an argument:

"Alfred is stronger," he said.

"Mathieu is faster," Francis countered.

"Alfred has better aim, he takes near-perfect shots."

"Mathieu has better control and he's much better at multitasking."

"Alfred takes more risks."

"Mathieu thinks before he acts. Alfred's lucky Mathieu isn't a cheat, otherwise he'd be eating ice right now."

"Mathew's lucky that Alfred loves him, otherwise he'd be bloody electrocuted by now."

"Well, this feels familiar. Where have I heard it before?" Gilbert feigned indecision. "Oh! That's right: _My Italian is better than your Italian_!" he teased.

Ludwig and Antonio shared a sheepish glance, then skated off in opposite directions. Gilbert laughed.

* * *

It was late-afternoon when the game finished and everyone went inside to get cleaned-up. Al and Matt had wandered off together, leaving Arthur alone with Francis. They had afternoon-tea in the garden, but didn't really talk. They were used to each other's silence. Absently, Arthur circled the teacup's edge with his finger, letting his mind wander to—_Alfred_. _Goddamn it_,_ why can't I get that bloke out of my head_? Arthur couldn't deny that he was physically attracted to Al—_he's so bloody good-looking_—but if that's all it was then he wouldn't have been worried. _I used to be attracted to Francis for fuck's sake_! (_before getting to know him_,_ of course_). But it wasn't just Al's looks that made Arthur's heartbeat skip. It was his bedazzling smile, his laugh, the stupid jokes he made, and the stories he told: always so animated. His personality was lively, honest, and surprisingly selfless. Arthur even loved that stupid blonde cowlick and the way Al pouted when he was upset. He was such a moody boy, so passionate.

"Arthur, you're grinning," said Francis.

Arthur blinked. Francis was staring at him, head resting on his hand. "No, I'm not. Stop staring at me, frog."

"And now you're blushing," Francis smirked. "You're thinking about Alfred, aren't you?"

Startled, Arthur dropped the teacup. "_What_? Why? Why would you think that? I'm not—I mean, I wasn't—Stop laughing, you bloody frog-eater! You're wrong!"

"If I was wrong then you wouldn't be blushing like a high-school girl," said Francis in triumph. "It's okay. Haven't you ever had a crush on your Magi before?"

"No. Have you?"

"Of course." The Frenchman shrugged. "It's a lot of time to spend together with one person, and some of my Magis were really cute. Not Mathieu-cute, but cute nonetheless."

"You think Matthew is cute?" Arthur asked, surprised by Francis' cavalier attitude.

Francis exhaled, as if it was obvious. "I'd be a fool not to, don't you think? The boy's beautiful."

Arthur thought about the pale-faced boy. It was strange how the twins could look so much alike, and yet each be so unique. They were unmistakably brothers, but they looked like completely different seasons. "Yes, I suppose Matthew is rather attractive," he agreed. It was then that he noticed the flirtatious glint in the Frenchman's blue eyes, and he added: "But you're not going to act on that crush, are you? You can't risk it," he insisted when Francis failed to reply. "If you fuck him, like you've fucked every other Magi you've had—"

"Not _every_ Magi!"

Arthur shook his head. "If you seduce him, you're just going to ruin it _again_. Matthew is just starting to trust you. He's a sweet lad and you're just going to scare him if you jump too soon. Don't fuck this up, Francis. The bonding will never work if he hates you, and then what? What will happen to him when you're gone?"

Francis cocked a blonde eyebrow. "You're not talking about Mathieu and I, are you? You're worried about how Alfred would react if you tried to—"

"I'm not trying to do anything!" Arthur snapped. "I would never take advantage of my position. I'm not_ you_." He realized his mistake when Francis didn't reply, just pursed his lips and looked elsewhere. _Oh fuck_. "I'm sorry, that was uncalled for," he amended. "I know you're not—"

"It doesn't matter," Francis interrupted. "You're right. I can't risk anything with Mathieu, regardless of how much I want to." He sighed and leant back. "I'm telling you this because I know you're not a gossip, Arthur. You won't tell anyone, because if you do I'll tell everyone that you're crushing on Alfred," he said in mock-threat. Arthur scoffed, but Francis continued. "I really did want to love all the others. A few times I fooled myself into thinking I actually did, but I was wrong. I know that now. I'm not stupid. I know I'll lose Mathieu if I try to seduce him, which is something I'm not willing to risk. I'd rather swallow my feelings and be his friend and hope that's it's enough for the bonding to work." His face was readable when he looked at Arthur, conveying fear and sadness. He shrugged helplessly. "I know I should be ashamed of myself since he's six years my junior _and_ my Magi, but I'm not."

"Why not?" Arthur wanted to know. Despite the sensitive topic, he admired the Frenchman's honesty.

Francis smiled. "Because I know it's real this time. It's not lust. It's not just something I want to feel. It's something that I _do_ feel. I can't really explain it—"

"You, a Frenchman, can't explain _l'amour_?"

"—but I trust it," he finished, silencing his English counterpart. "Arthur, the Doctor is forcing us to undergo the Bonding Ceremony in a week, but Mathieu and I aren't ready. What if it fails and we're not compatible? What if I lose him? What if he gets hurt, or worse? I'm so afraid of what I'll do. There are too many unknown variables, too many things that could go wrong. It's too dangerous. I won't risk Mathieu's safety."

Arthur's chest felt tight. He narrowed his eyes at Francis, afraid that he already knew the answer: "Just what are you saying?"

"I won't take the test. If it fails, Mathieu could die."

"If it fails, you'll die for certain!" Arthur snapped. Angrily, he grabbed his friend's shirt-front and verbally attacked. "Don't be such a self-sacrificial git! Refusal is suicide, especially for us. You know that. Don't be a bloody fool, Francis. Do you want to end up like Ivan?"

"Nobody knows what happened to Ivan. He disappeared."

"Exactly. What will Matthew do if _you_ disappear? What if you _are_ meant to be his Magnus, but you refuse to take the fucking test? He'll be passed back-and-forth like a bloody orphan until the Doctor decides it's not worth the trouble. Then _he'll_ take Matthew. Is that what you want?" Francis shook his head. Arthur let go of him and sat back. "You're a bloody coward," he said. "You're just too afraid to go through it again."

"Yes," Francis agreed. "I'm terrified, and I know you are, too." Arthur stiffened defensively, ready for a fight, but Francis didn't attack. Instead, he confessed: "I love Mathieu. I am well and truly in love with him and I hate that this has happened to him. I hate that he was brought here and forced on me. In another time and place, I might have been..." He shook his head, discarding the fantasy. "I just can't risk it, Arthur. I love him too much."

Arthur wanted to be angry. He wanted to rage and slap some sense back into his friend, and shout: "No, you don't! Nobody falls in love in a month! Not even a fucking Frenchman! It's impossible!" But he didn't. He didn't say anything because he doubted his own thoughts. _It's impossible to fall in love so fast_,_ isn't it_? The question brought Al to mind and he quickly shook his head, afraid to delve so deeply. He looked at Francis, who was always so honest with himself and willing to risk his own happiness—potentially his life—for love. _He's a fool. I'm not going to let him throw it all away on something as fleeting as love_!

He opened his mouth to advise Francis logically, but what came out surprised even him. Softly, he said:

"It's _because_ you love him that you have to go through with it."

* * *

**ALFRED**

Al was frying chicken in a skillet on the stovetop while Matt chopped vegetables. They had commandeered the fifth floor kitchen and refused to let anyone help prepare the night's meal, despite several offers. Al had complete faith in his culinary abilities and was excited to treat the Eurasians to a real deep South recipe. "Chop the potatoes thinner, Mattie," he advised. Matt nodded. He didn't know the recipe (Matt never used a recipe, he always just improvised for better or worse), but he was the perfect kitchen assistant. He followed orders like a soldier. They had the satellite-radio tuned to a North American channel and were singing loudly: Al in a Southern twang and Matt in a husky growl. So loud and involved, they didn't notice the Doctor's presence until he said:

"Never has anyone made so much noise, and that includes the Italians."

Al couldn't tell if he was joking or not; the mask hid his expression. Quickly, he lowered the volume and clenched the skillet's handle. Matt moved closer to Al, still holding the knife.

"Oh dear, I've startled you," said the Doctor unapologetically. "Don't look so afraid, I'm very pleased with the two of you. I've been monitoring your progress and I've been continuously impressed by both of your capabilities. It's admirable of your Magnus to have taught you both so much in such a short time. And you're both so young. I assume, since you're not training today, that you're both confident in your abilities and are ready for the Bonding Ceremony. I had planned it for next week, but I'm rather impatient to see what happens with you two." He paused thoughtfully, tapping his masked chin. "I think tomorrow will be good. Let's schedule it for ten o'clock, best to do it by moonlight. I trust you'll both tell your Magnus about the change in plans.

"Good evening, Alfred and Matthew."

* * *

Al couldn't sleep. He laid awake all night staring at the ceiling and occasionally looking at Arthur beside him. He had crawled into bed with such a strange look on his face, somewhere lost between mourning and bliss, and he had fallen asleep almost instantly. It was uncharacteristic of the Englishman, who always tossed-and-turned, waking throughout the night. Al blamed it on exhaustion, ice-hockey bruises, and a full belly. Al's efforts in the kitchen had certainly not gone unappreciated. Everyone had complimented the meal and most had asked for seconds. It had been a wonderful night of laughter and story-telling, gentle mockery, and a pool tournament (which both twins totally sucked at). It had been fun, but Al couldn't shake the Doctor's words:

_I think tomorrow will be good._

The Bonding Ceremony was dangerous—deadly, even. Arthur hadn't spared Al the details when explaining the process. He had wanted Al to be ready, facing no surprises. That's why Al had spent the remainder of their time in private telling Matt everything he could to ensure that his twin was equally prepared. But he hadn't told Arthur.

_You didn't tell me about the deadline because you wanted to focus on training_._ You didn't want me to feel rushed or frantic_,_ worried about the bonding. You did it for my own good_, Al thought in understanding. _That's why I'm not telling you_,_ Arthur. _If Arthur had known that the Bonding Ceremony would take place in less than twenty-four hours, he would panic. _I don't want you to worry. I want you to sleep tonight and preserve your strength_. _I need you at your best tomorrow. It's for your own good._

Impulsively, he leant over and gently pressed his lips to Arthur's cheek. "I don't want to lose you, Artie."


	7. Chapter Seven

**DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya**

**BIRDSONG**

* * *

**SEVEN**

**MATTHEW**

Francis was in the kitchenette mixing chocolate to drizzle over fresh croissants. His curls were pulled back into a ribbon, revealing his face—high cheekbones, sensual lips, sparkling eyes—singing softly to himself in French. Absently, he reached up and tucked an errant curl behind his ear. Matt watched him from the settee, pretending to read a book. He feigned indifference, but deep down he felt connected to Francis in a way that he couldn't explain, and try as he might he couldn't quiet his anxiety. It had been growing since last night, when the Doctor had decided to expedite the Bonding Ceremony. An instinctive fear was gnawing at him, but not for himself. He looked at Francis over the book's edge and bit his lip. _If the bonding doesn't go well... This is Francis' last chance_._ If I somehow fuck it up_,_ what will happen to him_? He couldn't stand the thought of Francis getting hurt because of him. The Frenchman had been so kind and considerate to him, and when he smiled Matt's heart skipped a beat. _He really knows how to make a person feel special._

Matt knew that he should have told Francis about the Bonding Ceremony, but instead he had let him sleep easy, and snuggled close when he was sure the Frenchman was asleep. Lying beside him, Matt had felt simultaneously peaceful and terrified. It was selfish to keep something so critical a secret, but he didn't want Francis to worry for him.

_I'm his Magi_, Matt thought. _I should be able to protect him_,_ right_?

Discretely, Matt glanced at the clock. It was almost six o'clock—suppertime—but Matt wasn't hungry. He felt guilty as he watched Francis, who looked so naive. _A word I never thought I'd use to describe him_. _I should tell him about the bonding. I should warn him._ He stood and walked to the counter.

"Francis," he inquired. The Frenchman looked up and smiled. Matt choked. "Do you want to come for a walk with me?" he asked instead.

Francis was delighted to accompany Matt. He followed him into the garden and up the mountain path. They walked close together, and Matt didn't protest when Francis looped an arm through his. They hiked in relative silence until they reached the summit. Bathed in bright sunlight, Francis sat down on a bench to admire the landscape, which was beautifully quiet and isolated. It was a land the modern world had forgotten. Matt paced, kicking stones over the edge. Then, impulsively, he leant down and wrapped his arms loosely around Francis' neck, resting his chin coyly atop the Magnus' shoulder. Francis reached up and ran his thumb over the boy's forearm.

"Francis?"

"Yes?"

Matt could hear contentment in the Frenchman's voice. He inhaled. "I should have told you before..."

Francis turned slightly, facing him. "Yes—?"

"I just... wanted to say thank-you for everything you've done for me. I couldn't have done it alone. You've been a really good Magnus, and a really good friend."

Francis smiled, sapphire-blue eyes twinkling. "You're welcome, Mathieu. It's been my pleasure."

He shifted and indicated that Matt should sit beside him, which Matt did. He leant against Francis' side and was surprised by how comfortable and safe he felt; how easy it was to sit so close together and not feel nervous about it. Matt had always liked his personal space. He had always been claustrophobic of small spaces and felt anxious when he was too close to others. Al was the only person he willingly let penetrate his self-defence, but somehow, effortlessly, Francis had earned an intimate place beside him. He should have been embarrassed for not realizing it, but, starved of affection for so long, he couldn't deny how nice it was to have someone's undivided attention; to have someone _want_ to spoil him; someone who genuinely cared about him. And to have that _someone_ be Francis: a man who was so cultured, popular, and attractive, whose reputation was flirtatious and, _ahem_, virile. It made Matt blush.

_Slow down_, he thought, hoping that Francis didn't notice. _He's my Magnus_,_ that's the only reason I have his attention. He wouldn't look twice at me if I belonged to someone else. It's only proximity to his _je ne sais quoi_ that makes me so appealing. Nobody would notice me if it wasn't for him_. _I owe him so much. And I'm grateful for what he's given me_. The first two weeks at the Birdcage had been unbearably lonely, but no more. _I can't believe how much better I feel_ _now and it's all because of him_.

"Mathieu, is something wrong? You're very quiet. More so than usual."

"No, nothing's wrong," said Matt. _Except that my heart skips a beat every time you say my name_.

Francis pretended to believe him. In French, he said: "The sunset is beautiful, isn't it? I would love to paint it." Matt failed to bite back a laugh and Francis faced him, frowning good-humouredly. "What?"

Matt shook his head. "I'm not even surprised that you paint—and dance and sing and cook and probably play some sort of obscure instrument, right? You're just _so _artistic!" he mocked Francis' talents. "Is there anything you can't do, _chéri_?"

"Skate," Francis whispered. Then he wrapped both arms around Matt and tickled him in retaliation, pulling the boy almost onto his lap. Matt laughed and fought him, kicking his legs because his arms were trapped. "Are you not impressed by my talents, _mon cher_?" he purred, pressing his lips to Matt's ear.

Matt's pulse quickened. He blushed. The laughter had left Francis' face and his blue eyes lingered on Matt's lips; he licked his own suggestively. The boy swallowed in anticipation, and softly said: "_Francis_—"

"Bonnefoi!"

A guardsman appeared on the path, clenching his rifle as he climbed. Bent-over in exertion, he gestured to the pair. "I've been looking everywhere for you, it's almost nine o'clock."

Francis released Matt and stood, deliberately shielding the boy. "Yes?" he acknowledged.

The guardsman challenged him. Impatiently, he snapped: "The Doctor is waiting. You and your Magi better get to the fucking rooftop ASAP or he's going to be fucking pissed. The Bonding Ceremony is in an hour. Do I have to escort you there or can you find it yourself? Hey! I'm talking to you!"

Francis stared in disbelief. "_What_?" he paled. "The Bonding Ceremony is next week—"

"It's at ten fucking o'clock." The guard raised his rifle in threat. "Now are you coming easily, or not?"

Francis started to argue, but Matt boldly interrupted: "Yes, we're coming. He just needs a minute."

The guard looked from Matt to Francis and then nodded unhappily. Matt waited until he had disappeared before he said: "I'm sorry that I didn't tell you the bonding date was changed. I should have, but I—"

"_You knew_?" Francis whipped around and gaped Matt. His eyes were round and harboured fear. "You knew and you didn't tell me? I'm your Magnus, Mathieu, you're supposed to trust me! Doesn't that prove we're not ready for the bonding? Why didn't you say something to me? You have no idea how dangerous this is! And to be completely unprepared for it is..." He clutched his forehead, overwhelmed.

His distress made Matt feel guilty, but not repentant. Francis' reaction only reassured Matt that he had made the right choice in keeping the bonding a secret. Otherwise, the Magnus would have spent the last twenty-four hours fretting over something that neither of them could change. _I'm sorry_,_ Francis_,_ but it was for the best. It's my job to protect you_,_ too_. A week ago Matt wouldn't have entertained the thought, but since then something had changed. He didn't know what to call it, but he could feel it.

Francis dropped his hands. "This can't be happening," he said to himself. "Not now. It's too soon. We're not ready. Mathieu, I can't let you... No. I _won't_ let you—_mm_!"

Impulsively, Matt kissed Francis. He clutched the Frenchman's shirtsleeves, closed his eyes, and pressed his lips chastely to Francis'. Briefly, he felt the heat and softness of Francis' lips, then quickly pulled back before he could respond. Bravely, staring up at the Magnus, he said:

"We can do this. Whatever it takes, I promise I won't fail you."

* * *

**FRANCIS**

Astonished by Matt's brazenness, Francis nodded. He took his outstretched hand and let the boy lead him down the mountain path back to the Birdcage. Matt squeezed Francis' hand in comfort as he guided him, showing confidence in the face of the Magnus' distress. _I shouldn't be showing weakness_, he thought shamefully. _I should be comforting him. Oh Mathieu_,_ it's not me that I'm worried about. I don't give a damn what happens to me as long as you're safe._ Every step that brought them closer to the fortress fueled Francis with crazy ideas of running; of grabbing Matt and disappearing into the mountains, like renegades; of getting lost together. _I've got to calm down_, he scolded himself._ I can't go through the bonding with doubts. I can't be afraid_._ I have to focus on success for both of our sake's_.

Everyone was waiting at the rooftop's entrance. It had long since become customary to wish the unbonded pair good luck. To makes jokes, relay advice, and to say an unspoken goodbye if the ceremony went horribly wrong.

"Don't worry, you'll be fine, Mattie," said Gilbert, but his smile was false. He was worried. Everyone was.

"Just stay focused," Toris advised kindly.

"And don't be afraid," Tino added, clenching Berwald's hand. The Swede nodded stoically.

Then Feliciano cried: "You can't die, Matt! If you come back then I'll make you pasta, okay? Please don't die like the last one!" Ludwig hugged the Italian to quiet him, and simply said: "It'll be okay."

Kiku bowed his head, offering a pale smile of encouragement.

Yao said: "Remember to breath, Matthew. Just relax."

Others wished them good luck. Sadik cracked a half-hearted joke, but the atmosphere was tense. _This is my ninth bonding_, Francis knew. _And_—as Feliciano had so kindly reminded everyone—_my last Magi died._ He squeezed Matt's hand, afraid to let go. The others noticed, but nobody commented. By the time he and Matt reached the door, the corridor was dead-quiet.

Then, just before they exited, Bjørn grabbed Matt's shoulder. Francis tensed in reflex, but let the Norwegian speak. His pale eyes ignored Francis and focused intently on Matt. Quietly, deliberately, he said:

"Don't lose control."

* * *

Bloody-fucking hell!" Arthur yelled loudly. "You goddamned son-of-a-sheep-fucking-whore! You can't do this! It's too fucking soon and you know it, you bloody wanker! It's fucking suicide!"

The red-faced Englishman was screaming at the Doctor in ire. He struggled and punched-out, trying to free himself from Al's strong restraint. The boy had him tightly around the waist and was holding him back, refusing to let go as commanded. His blue eyes looked weary, and, as Francis' followed Al's gaze, he realized that the boy was staring at the guardsmen's rifles. "Artie, just calm down," he pleaded in vain.

"No! Get the fuck off of me!" Arthur snapped. "This is all your fucking fault, Alfred! Let go of me!"

Al flinched when Arthur elbowed him, but didn't let go.

Francis yelled: "_Arthur_,_ stop_!"

Arthur's Lincoln-green eyes were wild. His gaze raked the Frenchman's face before landing on Matt. Seeing him, or both of them together seemed to remind Arthur of something important and he quieted. He bowed his head in shame. Hesitantly, Al released him.

"I'm sorry," he said to Francis. "I don't know why I did that. I just don't know what's come over me, I just feel so..." He and Matt had switched places, Matt going to Al's side. Quietly, so that only Francis could hear, Arthur said: "You were right, it's too soon. The lads aren't ready for this. Alfred, he's not..." He swallowed. Then suddenly he grabbed Francis' shoulder. "Maybe we can convince him to postpone the bonding. If both of us just—"

But Francis was already shaking his head. "No, _you_ were right, Arthur. You have no idea how much I want to grab Mathieu and run for the fucking hills, but that's a death-sentence. The Doctor would call us rogue and hunt us down like dogs. This," he nodded to the bonding circle, "is the only way we get out of this alive. All of us."

Defeated, Arthur nodded.

Together they rejoined the twins, who were standing side-by-side, subconsciously seeking support from each other. Matt smiled nervously at the two Magnus; Al feigned nonchalance as he surveyed the rooftop. He said:

"So this is it then, huh? It's less flashy than I expected. It's just like a practical exam, right? All we have to do is pass the test."

"Yes," said Arthur. "But I'm afraid it's easier said than done. I'm not trying to scare you"—he glanced quickly between them—"but nobody has ever been bonded this soon before. A month just isn't enough time to achieve a solid connection between partners. I hope I'mwrong, but this is probably a lost cause. If that's the case," he said seriously, "it was pleasure knowing both of you."

He nodded at the twins, trying to make light of the situation, but the Englishman's voice had lost its strength.

Francis' felt winded by Arthur's words, which conveyed so much raw fear. He wanted to say something that would encourage his friend, but he choked. He, too, felt unbearably helpless. He looked at Matt, feeling scared.

Then something unexpected happened. Despite the inescapable danger, Alfred smiled.

"Sometimes lost causes are the only ones worth fighting for," he said.

* * *

**ALFRED**

Arthur and Alfred, let's start with you," called the Doctor.

Al pulled Matt into a bone-crushing hug, and said: "Don't be scared, Mattie. I'll see you on the other side, I promise."

He followed Arthur into the bonding circle and stopped in the centre, facing him. It surprised him when the Englishman grabbed both of his hands. "Whatever happens, don't let go of me," he said. Al nodded, sensing Arthur's fear.

Holding on, he surveyed the circle. _It's more of an octagon_, he thought, eyeing the intricate design. At every peak a tall metallic pole jut from the rooftop's surface. _They're like giant Tesla coils_. "Science-mixed-magic," Arthur had called it in explanation. "I'm not privy to the details," he had said, "but it's how the Doctor can force our magic to react to each other. Presumably, the bonding is supposed to happen naturally over time, but he uses his own methods of bastardized science to force it. That's why it's so dangerous."Al hadn't fully understood it then, but he did now. He could feel the tug of electrical waves floating in the circle, like an invisible net. He could feel the electricity in his body responding to it, heating his veins, but he kept it subdued. He didn't want to lose control. Instead, he focused on Arthur, whose hands were trembling.

"Hey," he whispered, drawing Arthur's attention. "We're going to rock this, okay? My team doesn't lose."

Arthur nodded, though he didn't look reassured. He squeezed Al's hands so hard that the boy could feel the bite of his fingernails. He said: "Just don't let go."

"Ready?" said the Doctor, holding a lever. "Good luck."

A blinding white light engulfed them both and suddenly Al felt like he had been hit by a truck. The force of it knocked him backwards, but Arthur held his hands. He could feel the Englishman's strength. Not the way his muscles physically pulled, but the actual cords of strength in his body, which strained to hold onto Al. Everything around them disappeared: the rooftop, the circle, even Arthur. Al was blind. He couldn't see the Englishman, but he could feel him. He could feel the sweat on Arthur's hands, the heat of his body; he could feel every laboured breath Arthur took, the way his lungs expanded and compressed; he could feel Arthur's pounding heartbeat, which was deafening. It was not just awareness, it was real. Al could actually, metaphysically feel Arthur's reactions as if they were his own. He could feel the Magnus' his body and mind. _AH_! Al threw his head back and screamed loudly. Pain like nothing he had ever experienced pierced his brain. It was white-hot and dizzying, disorienting. Suddenly he could see things that he didn't understand: thoughts and memories that weren't his. He saw people and places that he didn't know, and he could feel intense emotions associated with each one. He screamed again, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of information that was being forced into him._ I can't_!_ It's too much_! _I'm going to lose control_! _I'm going to break_! he thought in agony. He cried-out in pain as his magic went berserk. He couldn't hold it in any longer. He had to let go. He felt like he was being electrocuted, struck by lightning over-and-over again. _Arthur—_! he screamed, grabbing at the Magnus, who was slipping away. _Arthur_,_ help me_! The force was incredibly strong, like a current pulling them apart. Al grabbed at Arthur's fingertips—

_Alfred_,_ I'm here_!_ I'm right here_!

Al couldn't see Arthur, but he could sense him. Instinctively, he threw himself forward against Arthur's chest and wrapped his arms around the Magnus, determined not to let go. The pain was unbearable, but he held on. He felt his legs collapse, but more than that he felt Arthur's shaking body under him. The Englishman's fingers dug into his back, skin-on-skin (as if he wasn't wearing a t-shirt), but he was slipping.

_No_._ I won't let you fall_.

That's when Al found his target, like a bulls-eye. He pulled with all of his strength and channelled the waves of raw energy into the connection between he and Arthur, using it to hold on. Binding them together.

_I can do this_,_ I know I can. Lean on me_, _Arthur. I've got you. I'll protect you. I promise._

It felt longer than the few seconds it took in reality, then it was over. The blinding light receded and Al found himself on his knees in the circle clutching Arthur tightly to his chest; Arthur, whose green eyes were screwed shut. Al breathed a deep sigh of relief and blinked away unshed tears. He felt parched and hungry, dizzy, disoriented, and completely exhausted. He felt spent. He was sweating and panting like a marathon runner. He felt hot, too hot. But the combination of it all felt good. He felt alive. It was a weird thing to think (and hard to explain), but he felt more alive now than ever before. The strangest thing of all, though, was the connection he felt to Arthur. It was like he had suddenly become half of one soul, a part of something bigger and fuller than what he had been only minutes before. In giddiness—craziness, perhaps—he laughed.

"Why are you laughing?" asked Arthur. He was pale-faced and breathing hard, but his eyes sparkled brightly when he opened them. He looked up at Al, who smiled cheekily back (enamoured by those beautiful green eyes). And, grinning, he added: "Don't lie to me, Alfred. I'll know now if you are."

* * *

**MATTHEW**

Matt watched Al lift Arthur off his feet in celebration and spin around in circles as the Magnus protested. "I knew it! I knew we could do it!" he shouted happily. Then he collapsed in a heap, red-faced and smiling.

The Doctor said: "Stupid boy, you're too weak to be jumping around."

Al flashed Matt an encouraging smile as the newly-bonded pair were escorted away. They were taken aside to undergo a quick medical exam to confirm the bonding's success: to ensure there were no immediate side-effects. It was such a mundane sight, Al being handed a juice-box as the staff took a vial of his blood, that Matt almost forgot it wasn't over. Not for him. As soon as the Doctor recalibrated his machine, it would be his and Francis' turn. Nervously, he glanced at the Frenchman, who had taken his hand when Arthur and Al entered the circle and hadn't yet let go. _Al and Arthur both seem fine_,_ so there's no reason to think that we won't be fine too_, he reasoned. But Al's screams were still fresh in Matt's mind and doubt plagued him. It scared him. _Arthur and Al have much more training than we do_._ They spent much more time together_. _Arthur prepared Al for the bonding_,_ he told him everything. And Al is strong._

The Doctor said: "Francis and Matthew, you're next."

Francis wasted no time positioning Matt. Instead of holding hands, he pulled Matt into an embrace, like two skydivers holding onto each other for support. Matt laid his head on Francis' chest and clasped his hands behind the Magnus' back, locking them together. Francis was scared; so was Matt. But both feigned confidence when he said: "Francis—"

"Mathieu—"

Then Matt's world went white.

* * *

**FRANCIS**

Francis felt like he had frozen to death. One second he had felt excruciating pain—afraid, blind, body screaming—and the next he felt completely numb, as if his body was preserved in a block of ice and only his thoughts remained. It was completely mute, and yet he felt a constant, debilitating fear of the outside storm; of the pain and suffering. _Are these Mathieu's thoughts I'm feeling_? It was overwhelming. He felt the full force of Matt's magic trying to consume him. He felt simultaneously strengthened and weakened by it. He felt like he would faint. _Mathieu_! he cried-out. He could hear the Magi screaming in agony, but he couldn't see him. He could only hold onto Matt's body as tightly as he could, fighting the raging storm that tried to pry him away. _No_,_ he's mine_!_ You can't have him_! Francis yelled._ He's mine_! In retaliation, a powerful, invisible force knocked him backwards and he hit the ground hard.

When next he opened his eyes, he could see again and he sighed deeply in relief. It was over.

"_Mathieu_!" he gasped, then coughed violently.

He was lying on his back, his legs spread, with Matt on top of him. His arms trembled as he released the cold boy, who was groggily coming back to consciousness. When Matt opened his violet eyes and smiled exhaustedly up at Francis, conveying relief, Francis couldn't contain his joy. He took Matt's face in his hands and pulled the boy into a hungry kiss. The second he began to pull away, he knew that he wanted—needed— more. A sudden feeling like a tidal wave overcame him and he had to stop himself from taking Matt right then and there in front of everyone. He had to stop himself from devouring the boy. _What the fuck_—?Testing his self-restraint, Francis forced himself to stop before sating a sudden, insatiable hunger on—_in_—Matt, his Magi. It was both exhilarating and disturbing. Francis had never felt more like a horny teenager in his entire life, even when he had been one.

_What is this_? he wondered, both shocked and intrigued. _My blood is on fire. I want him more than I've ever wanted anything in my life_! He felt connected to Matt. _We're meant to be together_, _I can feel it._ Something raw and primordial in his DNA was instinctively drawn to Matt. It was a desire stronger than lust and its pull was unyielding, like magnets. _Oh God_,_ I've got to stop_. _We're not alone_,_ and even if we were I couldn't—_

Regretfully, he pushed Matt back. Matt blinked, staring dazedly at Francis. He clutched Francis' shoulders and leant toward him, wanting more, but Francis shook him.

"_No_," he gasped breathlessly. He glanced from the Doctor to Arthur and Al. "_Not here_."

* * *

**ARTHUR**

Alfred, take it easy, you're still woozy," Arthur advised, pressing a hand to Al's back.

He felt strong as Al's magic coursed through his body. The intensity and intimacy of their connection was indescribable. It felt so good, addictively powerful. _It's no wonder Alfred recovers so quickly from illness and injury_, Arthur thought in understanding. _I bet he'll be absolutely fine by morning_ _and ready to continue his training_. _Only now we'll train as a properly bonded pair._ He couldn't help but smile; he was so happy.

His legs trembled and he stumbled against Al. "Oh, sorry—"

"Steady on, mate," Al mocked him. He snaked his arm around Arthur's waist and together they supported each other like injured soldiers.

They reached the seventh floor apartment at half-past midnight. It was dark and quiet and nothing moved. Arthur wanted to have a hot, relaxing shower, but he felt too tired. Instead, he followed Al into the bedroom and collapsed face-down into a pillow. His pillow felt softer and more inviting than usual. He couldn't ever remember being so incredibly tired as he rolled onto his side and exhaled in contentment. When he opened his eyes he found Al lying opposite, watching him through those big cornflower-blue eyes. Curiously, he said: "What?"

Al shrugged. His lopsided grin was sleepy. "It feels weird crawling into bed like nothing's happened."

"Maybe... a little," Arthur yawned.

"Hey." Al shifted closer, like two preteens at a slumber-party. "You've done this six times before, right? Were you expecting it to feel like this when it finally worked? The bonding, I mean." He didn't need to explain what it felt like, both of them knew. Both of them had experienced it. "What did it feel like with the other Magi?"

Arthur thought for a minute, and then said: "It was painful, but not nearly as overwhelming. It felt... empty. I couldn't feel them like I could—_can_—you, I couldn't sense them. The first time was really confusing. I was knocked unconscious and when I awoke the poor Magi was coughing-up blood. She was sent away soon after that and I blamed myself for it. I thought that I had been too hard on her. I was determined to do better with the next one, but he started seizing midway through and nearly choked to death. The next two were unsuccessful because our magic rejected each other; I got a nosebleed once, but nobody got hurt. The last two times..." Arthur glanced away in guilt, "...both Magi died. It gets harder and more dangerous every time you go through it. I was comatose the last time and didn't expect to ever wake up again."

It was then that he felt Al's hand squeeze his bicep, warm and comforting, and he looked back at the Magi: _My Magi_. It felt strange knowing that he and Al were now bonded unto death, but it wasn't unpleasant.

"Were you ever scared?" Al asked.

"Every time."

Al rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. He said: "You don't have to be scared ever again. Not as long as we're partners, okay? Because I'm going to protect you, Artie. I promise."

"I'm five years older than you and I've been a Magnus for seven years longer. I think you just stole _my_ line, Alfred." Smiling, he reached over and poked Al's stomach. "But I appreciate the sentiment, partner."

* * *

**MATTHEW**

Francis pulled Matt inside; Matt kicked the door closed behind him. He grasped handfuls of the Frenchman's shirt and leant up, pressing their lips clumsily together. Francis' hands held Matt's hips, squeezing as he bowed into the kiss, trying to slow and guide the boy's desperate rhythm. _I can't help it_, Matt thought, walking backwards as Francis pushed him toward the bedroom. _I want to be close to him_,_ closer than this_. _I want him to_—His legs hit the bed and he fell back, landing on the mattress with Francis' weight on top of him. He moved his hands to Francis' shoulders and arched into his body, then wrapped his arms around the Frenchman, urging him closer. Francis lowered his head, sucking on Matt's neck; Matt threw his head back and moaned softly. His body was so sensitive, so receptive to the Frenchman's experienced touch. Every kiss, every desperate touch felt magnified. _Why is this happening to me_?_ Is it because of the bonding_? Matt felt pleasantly dizzy. He knew he wasn't thinking soberly. He felt drugged. _That's what this feels like_: _like the best_,_ most potent high in the world_. _I feel invincible. I don't want it to stop_!

Since Francis had forced them apart on the rooftop, Matt's whole being ached for more. He had completely disregarded how exhausted he felt, and even their audience. _If he hadn't stopped_,_ I would have let him fuck me right there_. Fortunately, one of them had maintained his self-control. Control that had dissolved as soon as their apartment door was closed.

"Mathieu," Francis said, breath hot against Matt's cold skin. It sent a shiver up the boy's spine. "_I want you_."

In proof, Francis tugged off Matt's shirt and unbuttoned his jeans, then slid them down his slender thighs. Matt let Francis explore his naked body as he writhed and whined in the Frenchman's grasp. He had never let anyone touch him so intimately before. It was both embarrassing and arousing, exhilarating, but none of that registered in his foggy brain. All he could think about with increasing urgency was how much he wanted Francis' cock inside him, and the release it would provide. He dug his fingers into the contours of Francis' back, his muscles slicked with sweat; his silky curls loose and tousled. Matt's heart was pounding as Francis pushed him down. He was breathing erratically as his lips formed an erotic O in anticipation. He closed his eyes, ready and willing to give everything he had to Francis, his Magnus—

Then Francis stopped.

"_No_," he whispered from his position between Matt's legs, holding his thighs. He looked torn, fighting with himself. His sexy blue eyes were feverish with lust, but he shook his head. "_No_, _I can't... I shouldn't_..."

Feeling desperate, angry even, Matt's voice trembled. "_Francis_—" _don't you dare leave me like this. Don't go. _He looked Francis straight in the eye, tear-filled violet meeting beautiful blue, and he said: "We're bonded now. You're my Magnus until one of us dies. You promised to take care of me, so finish what you started!"

Matt's demand pushed Francis over the edge. "_I want you so much_," he said fiercely, kissing the Magi with renewed hunger, sucking his lips and forcing his tongue into the boy's mouth. Matt closed his eyes and lost himself in Francis' touch and emotions, which he could feel more strongly than his own. As Francis's slick length entered him, filling him, he was overcome by pain and pleasure, the likes of which he had never felt before. He barely heard himself cry-out. Their bodies seemed to become one in the intimate bliss that followed, as if they were each half of one soul being re-forged together.

Matt was so lost in the feeling that he almost didn't hear Francis say:

"_I love you_."


	8. Chapter Eight

**DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya**

**BIRDSONG**

* * *

**EIGHT**

**FRANCIS**

Francis leant against the window, holding a coffee-mug, his blue eyes plastered to the half-open bedroom door. It was rare that he awoke before Matt, before sunrise even, but the boy was dead-asleep. He was _very_ exhausted. Francis, however, felt restless. A good, strong restless (he suddenly had so much energy!), but he worried about the repercussions of what he had done. _I've never lost control like that_, he thought, feeling ashamed of himself. _I took Mathieu's virginity—_which had felt wonderful, but—_I should have gone slower_. _I should have been more receptive_ _and gentle. It should have meant more. Instead_,_ I took him like my life depended on it_,_ like some animal. It felt so good_._ But it was rushed_ _and_ _inconsiderate. That's not me._ _I wish I could do it over_. He sighed, trying to pretend that it hadn't been the best sex he had ever had in his life. He already wanted it again.

He finished his coffee and headed downstairs, letting Matt sleep. On the seventh-floor, the elevator stopped and as soon as the doors opened Francis found himself engulfed by Antonio. "Franny!" he gasped, throwing his arms around Francis' neck. "I'm so glad you're alive! I was worried when nobody saw you afterward, and I thought... How is Mathew, is he okay?"

Francis hugged Antonio—his body was comforting, sunshine-warm, and his touch was fraternal—then gently pried him off. "Mathieu's fine, he's... resting. The bonding worked."

Despite his confliction, he couldn't help but smile. Matt had officially become Francis' Magi, bonded together for life. He had waited seven years for this and now Matt couldn't be taken away from him. _He belongs to me_ _now. He's mine. I love him and he's actually mine. I just hope he doesn't regret last night._

"Toni," he said as the elevator resumed. He looked at his Spanish foster-brother, who was bonded at sixteen-years-old. "After the bonding last night, uh..." He felt uncharacteristically awkward voicing it, but he trusted Antonio and wanted his advice. "Mathieu and I had sex."

Antonio's eyebrows lifted in surprise. Without a word he reached over Francis and hit the elevator's control-panel. It jolted and then stopped between floors. In private, Francis proceeded to explain the circumstances of what had happened to Antonio, who listened intently. "I had absolutely no self-control," he finished.

"I think I understand," Antonio nodded. "That overpowering... _urge _isn't uncommon in newly-bonded pairs. It's happened before, so don't worry about it."

Francis asked: "It happened to you?"

"Oh, fuck no!" Antonio dismissed, afraid that Francis had misunderstood. "Lovino was only twelve when we were bonded. I didn't touch him, I swear! Not until he was sixteen..." Francis cocked an eyebrow. In defense, Antonio said: "Lovino is my Magi and I love him. I would never hurt him like—"

"I hurt Mathieu?"

"No, of course not! You know that's not what I meant," Antonio recovered. "I'm just saying that I don't know what you're feeling because I never experienced it, but I do know that others have. If you want advice you should ask Mikkel and Bjørn," he disclosed not-so-subtly. "They live next-door to Ludwig and Feliciano and the walls are rather thin. It's Bjørn's earth-shaker magic, you know? I overheard Feliciano tell Lovino once that they can actually feel the walls shake when Mikkel and Bjørn get really—"

"I am _not_ asking Mikkel and Bjørn about their sex-life," Francis interrupted. "I quite like my face and don't want it permanently rearranged."

"I know that they're not the most approachable," Antonio acknowledged, "but Matthew's magic is the same calibre as Bjørn's. Do it for his benefit. Bjørn's a really accomplished Magi." Antonio shrugged. "Being bonded is really great because of the physical connection we share, but pairs don't always feel the same things emotionally. Sometimes what a Magi needs is to talk to another Magi who understands how he's feeling. When Eliza came here three years ago she immediately took to Lovino and Feliciano, like a big sister. She was wonderful to them, something of a confidant. Kiku is another good example because he's so patient with new-comers. Magnus are no different, Francis. You have Arthur and Gilbert and I, but Matthew doesn't have anyone he can ask for advice."

Francis sighed. He didn't want to involve anyone else, but he couldn't deny Antonio's logic. He pushed the elevator's button and it resumed its descent. "I'll think about it, but don't tell anyone else in the meantime, okay?"

Antonio crossed his heart, miming trustworthiness. "My lips are sealed."

* * *

**MATTHEW**

It was lunchtime before Matt finally roused from a rare, dreamless sleep. He shifted and felt a stab of pain that jolted him awake, groaning. His body was extremely sensitive. He moved cautiously, pushing himself onto his elbows. The sheets were soft against his naked skin, which was flushed and bruised. He licked his lips in uncertainty as he tried to recall the night's events. The bonding was fresh in his memory, but the aftermath was foggy. He remembered feeling desperate and aroused, and he—vaguely—remembered the foreign feeling of having Francis' cock inside him, wet and swollen. He shook his head. He had never felt more hung-over in his entire life. He could only remember a desperate need, and thinking: _Take me_!_ Just take me_!

_But that's not me_, he realized in shock. _I don't do that. I've never done that_. _But I wanted him so badly_.

It was a hard feeling to describe. He felt conflicted, like he should be humiliated about what had happened, but he wasn't—because he wanted more. _Am I a masochist or something_? he feared. He tensed as he moved. (He was embarrassingly aware of his body.) _Is this what it's like to be bonded_, _to_ _want so desperately to please my Magnus that I'll do anything_? _Give him anything_? _Is this normal or is it just me_? _Does everyone respond this way_? _Did Al_—?

Francis knocked on the bedroom door. "Mathieu, are you awake? I brought you lunch," he said, poking his head inside. "I didn't think you would want to go downstairs."

Matt should have felt exposed with the bed-sheets pooled at his waist, but he didn't. On the contrary, he felt good as Francis' blue eyes raked over him. Despite the holes in his memory, he did remember kissing Francis on the mountaintop and felt the urge to do it again now. To distract himself, he said: "Thanks, but I want to shower first." Holding the bed-sheet at his waist he stood up—and immediately collapsed. Francis flinched. "It's alright, I'm fine," Matt said, dismissing his assistance. As dignified as possible, he walked into the washroom. Then his legs buckled and he grabbed a shelf in reflex, knocking several bottles onto the floor. "_Ouch_! Son-of-a—"

"Mathieu," said Francis, taking in the scene (covering his mouth to hide a smile), "do you want my help?"

Half-kneeling, Matt looked up at him and sighed. "Maybe."

He took Francis' hand and stood, wincing; his legs felt like jelly. He was expecting Francis to help him climb into the shower safely. He wasn't expecting the Frenchman to undress and join him.

Francis held Matt one-handed, back-to-chest, as he massaged soap into the boy's soft skin. Matt should have been embarrassed by the ease with which Francis manipulated his body, but—again—he didn't. It felt natural. The steam, hot water, and Francis' body behind him was intoxicating. Instinctively, Matt leant back and closed his eyes. He could feel beads of water rolling over his skin and silky, soapy curls stuck to his neck. They could have been his or Francis' curls; Matt didn't care which. He could feel the Magnus' cock growing hard, wanting to penetrate deep—and Matt let him. Hands braced against the wall, head bowed, he cried-out as Francis took him for the second time in less than twelve hours. Gasping, he writhed beneath the Frenchman's body, growing weaker with every thrust until it was over. He gasped in climax and then sank like a ragdoll in Francis' arms.

"Mathieu, _hah _are you _hah _okay?" he panted.

Matt opened his eyes. The walls were frosted and beads of water had frozen like pearls of ice on his skin. The water had ceased to fall and icicles hung from the showerhead. In shock, he looked at Francis, whose deep breaths were visible in the cold.

"It's alright, I'm perfectly fine," he smiled at Matt. "A Magi's magic can't hurt his Magnus once they've been bonded. You'll never be able to hurt me again, magic-wise."

The frost thawed quickly as Matt relaxed and they finished showering, then got out and toweled off. Francis bundled Matt into a big terrycloth towel and then lifted his chin and kissed him.

"I'm sorry, _chéri_," he said tenderly. "I just can't control myself when I see you and touch you. I want you so badly. I want to fuck you like a..." He stopped mid-sentence and looked down. Matt wondered for a moment if Francis regretted it. However, when he finally met Matt's eyes the Frenchman was smiling hopefully. "It's still overwhelming right now, but I promise I'll do this properly if you let me. I love you, Mathieu, and I don't want you to ever think otherwise. I love you," he repeated, kissing Matt in example. Matt let the second kiss linger before he tied the towel around his waist and left the washroom, feeling foggy, as if he was inside a dream.

He was flushed and smiling when, suddenly, the apartment door flew open and Feliciano rushed inside.

"Matt, I'm so glad you're okay!" he shouted. Spontaneously, he grabbed Matt and pulled him close enough to kiss both cheeks. "I was so worried because you didn't come down for breakfast or lunch today, and nobody saw you last night after the bonding! I thought you might be sick, or worse! The bonding is such a scary thing! I was afraid you might have been hurt!"

"Feliciano, stop!" snapped Ludwig. "I'm sorry, Matthew. He should have knocked before—"

"Mathieu, did you say something?" Francis stepped out of the washroom, unabashedly nude. Seeing guests in the apartment, however, he snatched a towel from inside and held it to his waist. "Oh. I wasn't expecting company."

Ludwig blushed. "No, of course not— sorry!" He grabbed Feliciano's biceps and pulled him back. Matt's face paled in panic; he could feel ice in his blood. He clutched his towel and focused on leashing his magic, wishing that he was invisible. "We didn't mean to interrupt," said Ludwig in fast retreat. "Sorry, Francis."

As Ludwig dragged Feliciano out, Matt saw realization dawn on the Italian's face. He glanced between Matt and Francis and his lips parted in surprise. Then the door closed and Matt exhaled (he hadn't even realized he was holding his breath). Francis recognized the boy's distress and wrapped his arms around Matt from behind.

"Well that was a little awkward," he admitted. He kept his tone light in reassurance, but Matt tensed. "Don't worry, _cher_, we're bonded now. Other couples have been caught doing worse."

Worse, Matt thought, was not an encouraging word. _That's the second time those two have seen me naked_, he realized absently.

"He won't tell anyone, will he?" he worried. Feliciano's wide-eyed reaction had jolted him back to reality, like a slap in the face. _What am I even doing_?

"So what if he does? Would that be such a terrible thing?"

Matt shrugged out of Francis' embrace, clenching his towel. "Al won't like it."

"Ah. And your brother controls your love-life, does he?"

"No, but... I'm not even sure that's what this is," said Matt honestly. "Please don't take this the wrong way, but I still don't even understand what happened between us... twice. This feeling..." He blushed. "I mean, I don't really think that we qualify as a _couple_ just because we're bonded now and... had sex. I'm sorry."

"Oh. No, don't be," Francis recovered quickly. "This must be very overwhelming for you, I understand."

"Thank-you." Matt felt relieved. He really did care about Francis, after all. He was undoubtedly attracted to him, and being bonded to him was more intense and made him feel more powerful than he could have ever imagined. But his feelings were befuddled and his memory was full of holes. In truth, it wasn't the sex that made Matt anxious. It was the blatant _I love you_.

"Could we please just keep all of this between us (and Ludwig and Feliciano)?" he asked.

"Of course," said Francis, trying to hide his disappointment. "Whatever you want, _chéri_."

* * *

**ALFRED**

Al offered to stand in the queue to get supper for he and Arthur, playing the gentleman. Arthur smiled in surprise and his Lincoln-green eyes sparkled, which made it worth it. Al dodged several friendly jabs about being newly-bonded (and a few sexual innuendos), as if they were a newlywed couple:

"We'll see just how long that blissful smile lasts," they warned him good-humouredly.

"Ah, yes! There's the novelty of being newly-bonded: bright-eyed and hopeful."

Al stood in the queue behind Antonio, who was talking to Feliciano and didn't notice him. Al wasn't a gossip. He only ever eavesdropped on Arthur and Francis when the conversation involved he or Matt, but it was Matt's name that caught his attention now. Feliciano was telling Antonio how relieved he was that Matt was well.

"Yeah, I was relieved to see Francis this morning," said Antonio. "I was afraid the bonding would fail for him again. Remember what happened the last time? The Magi died and Francis was comatose for ten of the longest days of my life," he admitted. "I really thought I was going to lose him. I was so lucky to have Lovino. Your brother was so sweet and considerate."

Feliciano smiled. "Lovino can be surprisingly compassionate," he agreed.

It was then that Ludwig decided to join the conversation, expressing his belief that Magi were often (but not always) the more sensitive partner in the relationship because the influx of magic affected their emotions.

Feliciano ignored Ludwig's lecture, and said: "I honestly wasn't expecting Matt to be so accepting of Francis' advances, you know? But he looked so cute and happy in his towel with—"

Ludwig squeezed Feliciano's shoulder, forcing out a yip. His stern face carried a warning that peaked Al's suspicion. _What are they talking about_? He hadn't seen his brother yet, but Francis had reassured Arthur who had promised Al that Matt was fine. He was still recovering from the bonding._ Or is it something else_? Suddenly, he felt defensive. If Ludwig's secrecy and Antonio's guilty face were telling features, then both of them knew something that was unsuitable for public discussion. Al watched Antonio's reaction carefully, trying to puzzle-out what it might be.

"You saw Francis and Matt this morning?" the Spaniard enquired.

A curious look passed between he and Ludwig, which made Al uncomfortable. He had seen such exchanges before: Ludwig's face was mask-like, but Antonio's was an open-book. They stared cautiously at each other, reading the same confession:

"You already know, don't you?" Ludwig finally voiced.

"Of course I know, Francis told me," said Antonio, too loudly.

"Francis told you what?" Gilbert interrupted, sauntering over. "Hey, Al. How are you feeling?"

Ludwig and Antonio spun around in surprise, both looking sheepish. Piercing them with a blatant glare, Al said: "I'm fine. But what _did_ Francis tell you, Antonio?"

"Did he finally fuck Matt?" Gilbert joked indelicately. He stopped short when he noticed Antonio's reaction. Ludwig's was no less evident. Gilbert's face morphed into disbelief. "Holy shit! He did, didn't he?! Francis really isn't dicking around this time (no pun intended). I thought he'd at least wait until Matt had recovered from the bonding or something, but..." He shook his head. "I guess it was only a matter of time before he fucked another Magi—"

"_What_?" Al yelled.

Ludwig face-planted into his palm; Antonio looked like he had betrayed his best-friend.

"Oh, fuck." Gilbert's wine-red eyes went wide. Al followed his gaze and saw Matt standing in the doorway, looking shocked. "Mattie, I'm sorry," Gilbert tried to rewind the conversation. "I was just joking, I shouldn't have said that—"

"No, it's okay. I-I—I'm sorry," said Matt in reflex. He raised his hands like a shield; he looked mortified. "I wasn't trying to eavesdrop, I just—"

"Mathieu?" Matt had stopped so suddenly that Francis nearly crashed into him. He paused when he noticed everyone's guilty stares. "Is something wrong?"

"No—" Gilbert started, but Al interrupted:

"You fucking bastard!" he shouted, lunging at Francis.

"No! Al, please don't—" Matt panicked.

"You sleazy fucking frog-eater!" Al's body crackled with white-hot electricity, which made a sizzling noise. "I warned you! I told you that if you ever took advantage of Matt I'd kill you! Did you think I was kidding? Just because you're his Magnus now doesn't mean you fucking own him! And don't even deny that you think that way! I've seen it, you're so fucking possessive! Do the words _he's mine_ ring a bell, you frog? You selfish, manipulative bastard!"

"Al, please don't do this here," Matt begged, red-faced in embarrassment. But nobody heard him.

"Alfred, please calm down," said Francis, "I just—"

He gasped when Al grabbed his shirt-front and his body involuntarily pulsed in contact with the electricity. Like a street-fighter, Al forced him up against the wall.

"I didn't intend for it to happen, Alfred, we just—_Ah_!"

"Alfred, stop it!"

As Al's hands reached for Francis' neck, the electricity abruptly died. He could feel Arthur's approach as he hurried over. He could feel the Magnus short-circuiting his magic and holding it back with effort. Now that they were bonded, the flow of energy was controlled by the Magnus, not the Magi, so if Arthur wanted to starve Al's magic then he could. But that didn't mean Al wouldn't struggle.

"Arthur, let go!" he snapped. "This has nothing to do with you!"

"Or _you_," Arthur countered. "Just calm down. You're upset, you're feeling violent, I can feel it. You're making a scene!" he added, glancing back. "Just leave Francis alone."

"LET GO!" Al shouted, trying to force it. But Arthur's hold on his magic was strong and Al only succeeded in giving himself a headache. It strained his nerves. Finally, angry and frustrated, he accepted that he couldn't use his magic and instead punched Francis in the face. Arthur grabbed him, scolding him like a child, but Al shook him off. Feeling betrayed by both Magnus, he whipped around in search of his twin. "Mattie?" he said.

But Matt was gone.

"Fuck."

* * *

**MATTHEW**

Matt reached the pond and stopped running. He began to use his magic to freeze it, but he didn't want to alert Francis to his whereabouts just yet. He wanted to be alone, needing a minute to process everything that had been said. Al had raged about Francis taking advantage of him, and Gilbert had joked about the Frenchman's infamous history.

_How do they even know_? he wondered, feeling betrayed. _I haven't told anyone_._ Did Francis_? A horrible, sick feeling engulfed him. He distrusted it, but it gnawed at him regardless. _Was it a lie_? Francis had blamed his behaviour on the after-effects of the bonding, but try as he might Matt just couldn't remember it. _Did Francis lie to me to make bonded sex seem normal_,_ coaxing me into a false sense of security so he could take advantage of my naivety—twice_? Matt shook his head. _No. He was sincere when he confessed his feelings to me_, _I'm sure he was._ _I'm just upset_.

_But _why_ am I upset_?_ We've only briefly talked about being a couple_,_ which I rejected. If I don't want more from him then why does it even matter that he's fucked everyone else_?

Matt tried to be logical, but he couldn't stop the tears beading in his eyes. He swiped at his cheeks, angry with himself for feeling so vulnerable. _It's because I feel used_, he decided. _I shouldn't have let him take me like that_, _so willingly_. _I was so fucking desperate for him_! He felt humiliated now, especially since everyone else had not only known but had been expecting it. _They must think I'm the most gullible person in the world. Or the easiest_. Neither perspective was flattering, but the funny thing was:_ I'm not angry with Francis. _Despite the accusations cast against the Frenchman, that he continuously took advantage of his Magis, Matt didn't blame him for last night. _Because I wanted it too. It was just as much my fault as his._

And that's what he hated the most: his own selfishness. He hated that, as much as he thought he should, he didn't regret what they had done.

"Mathieu!" Francis called. He looked uncertain as he approached the pond. His nose was bloody and his face was already starting to bruise. "I'm so sorry that happened, _chéri_."

"No, it's alright," Matt said, feigning self-confidence. "It just took me off-guard. I wasn't expecting anyone to know"—let alone be making jokes—"since we agreed not to tell anyone."

"I'm so sorry. I honestly didn't think that Toni would tell anyone, he promised not to—"

He reached for Matt's hand, but Matt evaded him. "I know that Antonio's your foster-brother and you're close, but why did you tell him? I mean, the first thing you did after we had sex was run to tell your friend about it—? And it's not the first time you've done this, is it? Is this just your routine?" The moment the words left his mouth, Matt regretted it; he hated how his voice broke. But the possibility that Francis had been bragging to Antonio about fucking him hurt more than he admitted. It made him feel cheap. Despite Matt's apparent indifference, insults pierced him deeply. Quiet and submissive, he almost never got into verbal fights with anyone and, therefore, hadn't developed the backbone Al had. It hurt to be the punch-line of everyone's joke. He felt the familiar pinch of loneliness, knowing that everyone in the Birdcage was potentially having a laugh at his expense.

Francis hurried to defend himself. "No, of course not! It wasn't like that! I wasn't trying to... I only told Toni because I was confused about what had happened with the bonding. I've never experienced that feeling before and I just wanted his advice," he explained. "Mathieu, _chéri_, the unflattering stories you've heard about me aren't true—"

"So you haven't fucked every Magi you've ever had (except for Feliciano because he was pre-pubescent)?" It was supposed to be a joke to lighten the tension, but his smile faltered. "Sorry," he added when he saw the seriousness in Francis' eyes. "I didn't mean it as an insult, I just—"

"You're not wrong," Francis admitted, "but it's not how you think it is. I've never had sex with anyone whom I didn't honestly care for, I swear it. The others like to joke about it. Living here is rather boring otherwise, and sex is a favourite topic, but please believe that I never meant to involve you in my reputation. I never meant to hurt you." He reached out again and took Matt's hand. "I really do love you—"

"Please don't lie to me," Matt said, breaking contact. "We're bonded now so we should always be honest with each other, right? It's okay, everyone has a history, and I don't intend to poke into yours. I'm not mad at you. Actually, I think I'm finally starting to understand just how deeply Magnus and Magi are linked. I'm sure that's why we both felt so strongly before. It was just an impulse, a side-effect. I understand that sometimes it's going to be difficult to keep to ourselves, but I think it's for the best. You don't have to lie to protect me," he smiled in reassurance. "I'm not fragile, I'm not going to breakdown and cry because of what happened. Let's just be honest, okay? Last night was just really good sex. That's all."

"No! I mean, yes it was, but it wasn't a lie," Francis insisted. "Not then and not now."

_Please just stop talking_, Matt begged. Something tender tugged at his heartstrings, but he suppressed it. _I don't want things to be awkward between us_ _now that_ _we're bonded_. _I don't want to lose what trust we finally have_. _I don't want to feel alone again._

Matt flinched, but didn't fight when Francis lifted his chin and kissed him, softly at first. Then it got heated. He felt himself yielding to the Frenchman's skill, leaning urgently into him. His body remembered what it felt like to be touched like this; to be held and desired. _Oh God_,_ this feeling is addicting_! But when Francis tried to deepen the kiss, Matt gathered his courage and pushed him off.

"Please don't," he said softly. "I don't want things to get any more complicated than they already are, so let's just stop now while we're ahead."

Francis looked heartbroken, but he forced a resigned smile. "Okay. If that's really what you want then I'm sorry I forced my feelings on you. It's exactly what I tried not to do. I thought that maybe you felt... but no, of course not. I'm sorry," he repeated, unusually flustered. "I hope that you'll forgive me for what happened today. It wasn't my intension to embarrass you. I would apologize to Alfred too, but I think he made his feelings rather clear." He pointed to his face. "And I hope that what you heard today doesn't colour your opinion of me." Francis' tone was kind, but did nothing to mask his disappointment. "The last thing I want to do is lose your trust."

Matt nodded. He was about to leave, but something against his better judgement prompted him to ask one last question:

"If that's true then why didn't you just tell me about the other Magi?"

"Because what I've done in the past has absolutely nothing to do with the way I feel about you now," he said honestly. "You don't have to love me back, Mathieu, but I _am_ in love with you. And that's not going to change."

* * *

**ARTHUR**

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. Arthur opened the apartment door, revealing Matt. Eyes downcast, the boy smiled dejectedly. "Hello," he said quietly, "is Al here?"

Al leapt forward before Matt had finished his sentence. "Mattie! I looked for you, but you weren't... Hey, are you okay?" He pulled his brother into a one-armed hug and ushered him inside, pushing past Arthur, who closed the apartment's door.

Arthur had been nursing a cuppa tea, trying to apologize to a _very_ stubborn Al, but the Magi was refusing to listen. _Just because I wouldn't let you electrocute Francis_ _I'm the enemy_, he thought, frustrated with the pigheaded sixteen-year-old. Al wasn't a subtle person: he glared pointedly at Arthur, indicating that his presence was unwanted. Matt was unlikely to talk if he thought that Arthur was eavesdropping, but the Englishman refused to feel like a third-party in his own apartment. He felt badly, of course, noting Matt's unease, but Al's glare was more acknowledgement than he had gotten from the boy since supper. _I'll just go into the bedroom and leave them alone_. He took his cup, but stopped when Matt said:

"Can I sleep here tonight?"

"Yeah, of course," Al replied. He gave his brother an encouraging half-smile, and added: "Arthur can sleep on the couch." His tone was mocking, but there was no laughter on his face. He was tense, prepared for a fight. "Isn't that right, Artie? Or maybe, since you and Francis are such close friends, you want to sleep on his couch?"

Arthur's temper momentarily flared; he clenched his teacup to keep it at bay. Al's demanding tone was more than a suggestion: it was an order. _I am not taking orders from a Magi_! he thought self-importantly.

"You're kicking me out of my own apartment?" he asked, glancing from Al to Matt, who was toying with a curl and pretending not to notice the tense exchange. "Because of something that has absolutely nothing to do with you? You're shoving your nose into something that's none your business, Alfred. This isn't about you or me, it's about Matthew and—"

"I don't fucking care!" Al shouted angrily. "_Just get out_!"

* * *

That's how, hours later, Arthur came to be lying beside Francis in the Frenchman's bed, back-to-back and miserable.

"Arthur, you're on my side," Francis complained.

"Oh, sod-off. Do you think I fancy being in here with you instead of sleeping in my own apartment, in my own bed, with a gorgeous—goddamned stubborn, bloody wanker of a teenage—boy?"

"It's nice to hear you finally admitting your feelings, even if it is just to me," Francis replied. Arthur couldn't tell if he was joking or not; his tone was flat. "Just wait until he finally accepts you and you get to kiss him and touch him and fuck him like your life depended on it, until you feel so incredibly complete, and then, after having extremely hot shower-sex, your friends go and fuck it up so royally that he totally rejects your confession of love and breaks your fucking heart."

"Don't be self-pitying, it doesn't suit you." Arthur shifted his weight, but couldn't get comfortable. "Besides, you'd have to actually have a heart for Matthew to break it." Francis kicked him. "Ouch! What was that for?"

The Frenchman pushed himself onto his elbows, and snapped: "For being the worst friend possible! How the hell do I keep ending up with you? Toni or Gil wouldn't be half as insensitive as you are."

"Well, bloody-hell, I'm not _Toni_ or _Gil_," Arthur countered. He turned over and faced Francis. "And might I remind you, frog-eater, that the only reason I'm sleeping here next to you is because I'm a very _good_ friend who defended you and every single one of your fucking conquests!"

Francis narrowed his eyes in threat. "Do you want to sleep outside? Because it gets pretty cold at night."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Arthur face-planted in a pillow. "How did we end up like this? Both of us finally bonded and sleeping together again like when we were thirteen."

"I was fourteen."

"I don't care."

Francis sighed and laid back down. After a minute, Arthur placed a hand on his back. "He's going to get over this, you know. You and Matthew are going to be just fine because you belong together, you said so yourself," he spoke in comfort. "You couldn't have been bonded otherwise. He just needs to be with his brother right now. They've relied on each other their whole lives, so it's no wonder that Alfred feels threatened by you. He thinks that you're replacing him. And Matthew's just overwhelmed, confused. He's only sixteen. Besides," he added, flicking the back of Francis' neck, "now he knows what a cracking good lover you are, doesn't he? He won't stay away for long."

They were empty words. In truth, Arthur didn't know what would happen, but he got what he wanted.

Francis looked at him, unable to suppress a hopeful smile. "Thank-you for trying to cheer me up, Arthur, clumsy as it was. I appreciate it. Now, get back on your side and stop hogging the blanket."

* * *

**ALFRED**

Al pulled on a t-shirt and boxer-shorts and brushed his teeth, ready for bed. He opened the bedroom door where Matt was undressing, but stopped in the doorway. He blinked. Matt's skin was bruised and showed signs of harassment (_is that a hickey_?). A ripe love-bite glowed against his winter-white complexion. "Uh, Mattie?" he said cautiously, "why are you covered in purple bruises that look suspiciously like fingerprints?"

Quickly, Matt pulled down his t-shirt. "Well, you know how everyone says that Francis is really good in bed?" He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "It turns out they're right. Every single one of them. Every person who's ever let Francis fuck them. Like me. Only now I'm the one who's stuck with him forever because we're bonded, which is a little overwhelming right now and the reason why I'm sleeping in here with you, remember? So, if you could please refrain from asking me about the tokens he left behind I would appreciate it because I really don't want to talk about it, Al." That said, Matt climbed into the bed and pulled the blanket over his shoulders.

"Sorry, Mattie." Al crawled in beside him. He waited a minute, twiddling his thumbs, but couldn't hold back. "Just one thing, though. Is it really true about Francis? I hate him for what he did to you, but... is he really _that_ good?"

Matt arched his shoulders. He wasn't going to reply (Al could see it), but it slipped out. A meek:

"...yes."


	9. Chapter Nine

**DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya**

**BIRDSONG**

* * *

**NINE**

**ALFRED**

I just find it hard to believe." Al shrugged. He was leaning back on the settee in his t-shirt and boxer-shorts, feet braced on the coffee-table. Matt stood in the kitchenette brewing coffee. "How do you just let someone fuck you and then not remember the details?" he asked, befuddled. "How do you even know it was so good?"

"Are we really still talking about this?" Matt sighed. He poured two cups of coffee: black for Al; double-sugar, double-milk for himself. He handed Al a mug, then sat down on the coffee-table across from him. "I already told you, it's hard to explain. It's not the actual sex itself I remember, it's the feeling of being... close to him." Al blinked, sipping coffee. "I know it sounds like I'm avoiding the question, but, honestly, it's not a feeling I can describe. You'll just have to experience it for yourself someday," he teased, playing big-brother. (_Even though I'm the older twin_, Al thought grudgingly). "Quite frankly, Al, your fixation with my sex-life is getting kind of creepy," Matt added.

Al shot him a dirty look. "Okay, fine. I'm just a little surprised that _you_ lost your virginity first." He eyed his pale-faced brother, trying to read him. "Francis didn't—?"

"No, Al. For the thousandth time, Francis didn't force me, or trick me, or do anything else ungentlemanly to get me into bed." Matt sighed. "Why can't you believe that I wanted it just as much as he did?"

"Because you're my baby-brother, Mattie!" Al whined. "You're the good one, the conservative one. You're not supposed to have wild, raunchy nights that you can't remember. You're supposed to be the sweet one who, like, cooks pancakes and stuff. The one who never breaks curfew and does his homework on-time, you know?"

"Oh, to live inside your head," Matt mocked. "It sounds like an after-school special from the 1960s. I hate to break this wholesome, PG-rated illusion you have," he said, placing a hand on Al's shoulder, "but we're not little kids anymore, we're sixteen, and we're not living the same life we used to. Like it or not, we've both changed; maybe for the better, maybe not." He shrugged. "But I'll tell you a secret," he leant in close: "I fancy sex just as much as you do, Al."

"I know," said Al, ignoring Matt's sarcasm. "I just don't like change when it happens this fast. I feel like we've barely spent any time together since we were brought here and I hate that. Of everything that's ever happened to me, you've always been my constant, and now," Al paused, chewing on his lip, "it's like you're growing-up and leaving me behind. Is that stupid?"

"Yes," said Matt without hesitance. "Al, we're not growing apart. It's just that, after sixteen inseparable years, we're finally becoming different people. I know that you hate feeling alone. Believe me, I know," he said not unkindly, "but I don't think it's a bad thing for us not to be relying solely on each other. I've thought a lot about what happened between Francis and I and I realized that I'm not afraid of myself anymore, and that's because of him. Do I still feel confused and hurt because of what happened, yes, but I also don't want to lose him as a friend. It's not easy. I'm very conflicted about the whole thing, and the future, but I don't feel cold anymore."

Al didn't really understand—Matt's gaze was absent, lost in thought—but he nodded. It was hard for him to admit that his brother might be right; that growing-up didn't have to be a scary thing, even though he and Matt had been thrust unwillingly into it. Offhandedly, Al wondered if it was the bonding or the sex that had made Matt seem so suddenly wise. _I wish I could just let it go_,_ like Matt_, he thought. Al was usually the better at accepting circumstances, like being kidnapped and brought to the Birdcage, and having extraordinary magical powers, but he wasn't someone who forgave easily. It had always baffled him how Matt could forgive his enemies (_does Mattie even have enemies_?), even if the cut was deep. _It's probably healthier to live like that_, he acknowledged. But forgiveness had always seemed dispassionate to Al, like a surrender. _Maybe I shouldn't be surprised that Matt lost his virginity first_,_ because he can do what I can't_. _I could never surrender to someone else_: _not for sex_ _or anything. _Al had always been a fighter, strong and (seemingly) self-confident. He couldn't imagine giving himself to another person, like Matt had done so freely. He couldn't imagine submitting without a fight. Afraid to admit—

_I don't ever want just sex. I want real love_,_ the kind you find in storybooks._ He wouldn't ever admit it aloud, but Al was something of a romantic at heart. He disliked the idea of cheap sex parading as love; he craved romance and genuine affection. _Love shouldn't be so complicated_, _it should be the most straightforward thing in the world_, he thought, wondering at his own naivety. _You either love someone_,_ or you don't._ It sounded simple. True love in Al's thinking meant wanting to talk and laugh and play together; wanting to support and comfort each other; wanting to be together, even in the dead-silence. It meant having someone whom he considered his best-friend, but who could also get his blood fired. It meant never feeling alone. _If I had someone to love like that I would want to spoil them_. _I would cherish them_,_ take care of them_,_ protect them._

"I'm going to protect you," he had promised Arthur.

It was silly, childish even, to think that the Englishman needed Al's help. He was older and better schooled, after all. But the way Al felt about it was less a necessity and more a desire. _Maybe it's obligatory_, he thought, _maybe every Magi feels protective of his Magnus_, _like a dog to his master_—Al stopped in mid-thought and shook his head, angry at himself for thinking so fondly of the joke. _I'm not a dog_! he insisted. _I'm Alfred_, _the kickass Magi_. _I refuse to behave like someone's pet_.

Yet, glancing sideways at Matt, he wondered what it was like to feel so close to someone. Al could admit that he was undoubtedly a flirt when it was convenient, but it was always innocent. He wondered, somewhat enviously, what actual sex must be like, especially between real lovers. Despite his bravado, the prospect of sex unnerved him. It made him blush, conservative as he pretended not to be. He was, admittedly, a sentimental person.

_But does loving someone unconditionally mean submitting to them_?

_I wonder what it would be like with Arthur—_

Abruptly, he stopped himself.

"Okay," he decided, "it's way too early for self-reflection. Before we delve into anymore of our childhood issues, I need breakfast and another cup of coffee."

* * *

I guess I should go back to my apartment now," Matt said after lunch. They had eaten stale scones with peanut-butter, which was the only food available in Arthur's cupboard. Al offered to walk him back, feeling somewhat responsible for what would be an undoubtedly awkward reunion. Having heard Matt's side of the story, Al considered: _Maybe I did overreact just a little_._ I guess I shouldn't have punched Francis_. In the elevator, however, they met Gilbert.

"Al, Mattie, you're just the guys I was looking for," he said in cheerful greeting. Al frowned suspiciously. "I've been talking to the others and I've decided to host a tournament. A sparring-contest," he clarified. "Everyone's been kind of tense lately," he shifted, being intentionally ambiguous, "and what better way to relieve stress than by beating the shit out of each other? Come on, it'll be fun. A chance to take revenge on Yao and Kiku." He playfully punched Al's shoulder. "It'll be good for you both. At least you'll have something better to do than sit inside brooding about your Magnus."

Al exchanged a glance with Matt, who shrugged benignly. "Yeah, I guess I little friendly competition could be fun." Matt nodded in agreement, but neither of them was expecting Gilbert to bark in laughter.

"_Friendly competition_?" he said in disbelief. "Yeah, okay. Hold onto that happy thought."

Gilbert led the twins into the garden where everyone else was congregating. It was a beautiful day, blue-skied and sunny, with fluffy clouds rolling lazily across the sky. Gilbert loped to the jungle-gym and climbed up, using the tower like a podium. "_Willkommen_, fellow inmates!" he called, spreading out his arms, "to the eleventh Battle of the Birdies, hosted by yours truly: Gilbert Beilschmidt!" He bowed. "In honour of how much our lives suck living here and having nothing better to do, I hereby declare the tournament open! I trust you all remember who won the last ten times"—indiscreetly he pointed to Mikkel and Bjørn—"so let's do our best and hope for another tourney like Battle of the Birdies Seven, when Bjørn had the flu. No offense." There was a distinct murmur of agreement. Despite Gilbert's theatrics, everyone seemed to be excited. The competitive spirit was contagious and Al found himself smiling. "As a courtesy to those who've never played before—I'm looking specifically at Toris, Feliks, and my favourite little twins—I will now go over the rules," Gilbert continued. "In pure piñata-style I will close my eyes and spin around in order to choose pairs to compete. You can use anything within the garden to your advantage, but you can only win by forcing your opponents to yield using magic. If you start brawling you'll be disqualified. I say this mainly for Al's benefit," he added cheekily, "because we've all seen the product of his right-hook." He pointed to Francis' face; Francis rolled his eyes and then bowed when someone whistled. "In addition, I've decided that the ruling panel"—he indicated himself, Lars, and Laura—"is allowed to determine a victor in the event a sparring-match lasts longer than fifteen minutes. I believe you'll all agree that nobody wants to witness another six-hour-long face-off" (when Kiku and Heracles had to rock-paper-scissors to decide second place). "Once the winners have been decided everyone is invited to participate in a melee for revenge, wherein anything goes. Some of you might disagree with this last bit, thinking it unsporting, but it's my game so screw you."

As the twins joined Arthur and Francis, the Frenchman smiled at Matt.

Arthur said: "Sleep well, did you?"

Al ignored him. "This looks like fun," he said neutrally, avoiding eye-contact with both Magnus. He knew that he should apologize to them, but his pride forbade it. Unlike Matt and Francis ("I'm sorry about last night, I just wanted to be with Al for a bit."—"No, _chéri_. I'm sorry for making you feel uncomfortable. I want us to be friends."), Al and Arthur refused to acknowledge the awkwardness and used the present situation to distract from it. Al said:

"Have you ever played before?"

"Twice," Arthur replied, "but it's really hard for unbonded pairs to play properly and basically impossible for them to win. Not that it actually matters," he added. "As long as Mikkel and Bjørn are competing nobody else stands a chance. Not only are they strong, they've been together the longest and know each other inside and out." Al snorted at the innuendo. Arthur cracked a small smile and continued. "They're both competitive and don't like to lose."

"Well there's a first time for everything. They've never dueled me before. Don't worry, Artie, I'm the shit at competitions like this," Al bragged.

"As long as your opponents aren't ninjas," Arthur reminded him. "Isn't that what you said before? Pay close attention to the first match so you can see how it's done," he advised, pointing as the first two pairs faced each other.

Antonio smiled as he bent his head, talking privately to Lovino. Lovino's face was scowling, pretending that the whole game was stupid, but he wasn't good at hiding his nerves. His posture was tense. Standing opposite across the lawn was Sadik, looking cocky, and a handsome Greek. "Is that Sadik's Magi?" Al asked curiously. He had seen the Greek before, but had never talked to him. He always looked thoughtful and Al would've felt like he was interrupting (though everyone else described the Greek's facade as less thoughtful than sleepy).

"His name's Heracles," said Arthur. "He and Sadik are both individually well-trained, but unfortunately they don't get along very well so they rarely train together. Sometimes they duel really well, sometimes not."

Al watched as Heracles and Lovino circled each other like dogs before a fight. Then, suddenly, Lovino leapt forward in attack. Antonio shouted in Spanish and a bright light exploded, blinding Heracles—and everyone else. Al didn't want to miss anything, but he winced. The Greek yelled at the Turk, who waved sideways in indication. Heracles obeyed and dodged the light, which was growing brighter and hotter. Al could see sweat beads glistening on Antonio's forehead. Sadik snapped at Heracles, who spun around to retaliate. Unguarded, Lovino attacked him. Glancing back at Antonio for confirmation—the Spaniard nodded—Lovino produced a ball of yellow-orange fire. It lit his youthful face, hazel eyes wide in concentration. It was truly impressive, and judging by everyone's reaction it was also completely unexpected. The Italian stood with both of his hands engulfed in flames, dark hair whipping as sweat trickled down his temple; he looked like the incarnation of a Roman God. Antonio yelled an order and forcefully Lovino thrust the fireball at his opponents. Both Sadik and Heracles ducked, jumping out of the way in surprise. In reflex, Heracles went right at the same time Sadik tried to pull him left. The Greek's magic crackled and died in face of attack and Lovino grabbed his shirt, panting in exertion. Heracles raised his hands in surrender, and Sadik growled:

"Yield! We yield!"

Lovino's fire died and he collapsed, but he was smiling a rare, giddy smile. The others cheered, including Al. Antonio lifted his Magi and swung him around, laughing. As they retreated to the sidelines, Al heard Lovino confess:

"You were right, Toni, I can't believe I actually did it! Did you see that? We won!"

"Yes," Antonio smiled, kissing Lovino's cheek, "I'm so proud of you!"

"I doubt they'll be able to do that again anytime soon," Arthur noted. Al thought he saw a fleeting glimpse of competitiveness in the Englishman's smugness, but it faded when Gilbert's pointing finger landed on he and Al.

"Come on, Al, show us what a newly-bonded pair can do!" he challenged.

Arthur looked ill-at-ease, but Al felt excited as he skipped forward. "We're going to totally rock this!" he said. He could feel adrenaline heating his veins and he hoped that Arthur could feel it too, lending the Magnus his strength and confidence. Fueled, Al clenched and unclenched his hands. He could feel Arthur's intangible fingerprints on his magic, holding it back like a leashed dog. Together they faced their opponents: Ludwig and Feliciano.

"Ready?" Gilbert called. Al cast one last look at Arthur, who nodded. "_Go_!"

Al ran at Feliciano, fingers crackling. He could feel Arthur guiding him, as if he was watching the match from a higher vantage point like a chess player. Meticulously, he released Al's magic at the exact time Al moved. They were completely in sync as Al pulled energy from the sky and produced a stunning display of sparking, yellow electricity. It felt so good! It was so easy! There was no fear of losing control or misdirecting a shot. Arthur stayed one step ahead of Al the whole time, mapping the magical landscape like a cartographer. Al could physically see the electrical charges in Feliciano's body and focused on them. He needed no verbal direction. He could sense Arthur's thoughts, his strategy. He stopped ten feet from Feliciano and aimed for the charges in his body—

"AH! Germany, help!" Feliciano shrieked. Quickly, he darted behind Ludwig for protection. "Al's so scary!"

Confused, Al let the electricity die.

Ludwig sighed. "We yield," he said flatly, not at all surprised.

"I'm not going to lie, that kind of sucked," Al said, returning to Matt.

Matt shrugged. "Maybe from your perspective. From here you guys looked really cool, Al. Your whole attack looked completely choreographed. I guess all that training's paid off, eh?"

Al couldn't help but smile when others agreed, complimenting his and Arthur's style.

"I'm quite impressed," Francis said, feigning shock. "You two almost looked elegant."

Francis and Matt dueled Roderich and Eliza and won. Eliza was incredibly fast, using the sound-waves to dodge Matt's attacks. Deaf, it left Francis unable to give verbal commands and forced he and Matt to rely on sensing each other's intents, which they managed surprisingly well given their lack of training. Al could see that Matt trusted Francis' decisions because he, himself, couldn't see Eliza. Instead, he followed Francis' intuition and froze the ground as Eliza landed. The ice crawled up her calves, trapping her. "A lucky shot," she said afterward. However, it had scared everyone, including Al, when Matt pressed an icicle to Eliza's throat and didn't stop until Francis actually shouted: "_Mathieu_, _stop it now_!" In shock, he dropped the icicle. "Sorry! I'm so sorry!" he said in apology, somewhat dazed.

Al wanted to ask Matt what had happened, attacking Eliza for real, but his name was called again before he could.

Together he and Arthur defeated Eduard and Raivis. Eduard was a calm and calculating Magnus (not unlike Arthur), but Raivis was scatterbrained. He yelped when Al electrocuted him (_it was just a little nip_, he thought. Just enough to make the Latvian's hair go frizzy) and seemed to lose all focus after that. It was a short match, after which Eduard and Arthur sportingly shook hands. The real challenge Al and Arthur faced was Yao and Kiku. They fought fiercely and Al found himself clenching his teeth and growling as he aimed lightning-bolts at Kiku, who dodged every one. It was a long, heated match—everyone else yelled and cheered, thoroughly entertained—but the Asians were too practiced. Yao hardly moved, cocking his index finger as his clothes and long, jet-black hair blew in the wind. Both Al and Kiku's magic was intangible, the most unstable sort, but despite Al's diligent training Kiku was years ahead of him in knowing control. After an intense struggle, Arthur was forced to yield.

Al picked himself up from the ground and wiped his bleeding nose. "Why did you yield? I'm not done yet!" he snapped, feeling dangerously lightheaded. Woozily, he clutched Arthur's hand for balance.

"I'm the Magnus, I'll decide when my Magi's had enough," Arthur replied. He handed Al a handkerchief for his nose. "Don't look so disappointed, you did well."

Arthur led Al to the sidelines to watch the remaining duals. Francis and Matt won twice more before Mikkel and Bjørn crushed them—almost literally. Bjørn was good at using the landscape to his advantage. In a stunning show of strength he split the earth in two and raised it. Knowing that Matt would try to freeze it, he created a landslide that pushed the two now glaciers together, trapping Matt and Francis inside. The Norwegian continued to press his hands together as the glacial walls closed in, and he refused to stop until Francis yelled: "Yield!" Squished together, chest-to-chest, Francis and Matt struggled to get out. Cocky in victory, Mikkel stuck his hand through the narrow opening and refused to let Bjørn reverse the trap until Francis had shaken it.

"Nice try," he said, mussing Matt's curls when they had been released. He tried to do the same to Bjørn, but Bjørn evaded him. It wasn't until they had secured their tenth victory, defeating Yao and Kiku in a dazzling display of power, that the Norwegian let Mikkel pull him into a hug that lifted him off his feet. "Suck on that, losers!" Mikkel shouted arrogantly. "You'll never beat me and my Norge—my Magi," he corrected quickly, releasing Bjørn.

"I still think we could've won if you hadn't yielded so quickly," Al complained to Arthur. In preparation for the melee, he was stretching his limbs. "This time, just let me do it. I'm just as powerful as they are." He nodded in the jungle-gym's direction. "I have instincts about attacks too, you know."

"Instincts to run head-first into danger," Arthur dismissed. "You fall for the most obvious traps because you don't stop to think. I'm the Magnus, just stay with me and follow my lead."

The melee was fun. It was loud and chaotic and nobody followed the rules of a duel. The Magis attacked each other in succession, often in pairs as alliances formed; and the Magnus spit insults and threats at each other, trying to gain the advantage for their Magis. Unlike the duals, the Magnus' were pulled into the fray as well. It reminded Al of capture-the-flag wherein the Magnus were the flags, playfully kidnapped by opponents. He loved it. He laughed and shouted in delight every time his electricity hit its mark. It was funny watching people jump and squeal in surprise. Fueled with adrenaline and feeling unstoppable, Al ignored Arthur's judgement and teamed up with Matt to take revenge on Mikkel and Bjørn. Caught off-guard, the Norwegian held them at bay by lifting the earth in a wall. But Matt froze it and Al punched his fist into it and the ice-conducted-electricity shattered. They tackled the Norwegian and Matt trapped him like he had done Eliza. Bjørn tried to escape from below, but Al cast a surge of electricity under the ground, which shocked him. In victory, Matt pelted snowballs at Bjørn and Al made his hair stand on-end. Mikkel yelled in disbelief, running to his Magi's aid. He shoved the twins aside, but even Bjørn was biting back a smile in the end; Al and Matt were buckled-over laughing.

"Cheats!" the Dane yelled good-humouredly, placing a hand on each boy's head.

Al was about to retaliate when, suddenly, someone shrieked for real.

Lovino had lost control of his fiery magic and was endangering everyone around him. Unintentionally, he threw fireballs as he attempted to regain control. Antonio, unthreatened by his Magi's magic, was trying to quell it, but couldn't get a good enough grasp. It was too sporadic. Lovino was panicking, his eyes closed. He looked scared as Antonio grabbed him. In shock, Lovino slapped Antonio across the face, producing a fireball that shot out across the field—directly at Arthur.

Al was already moving. He screamed: "Artie!" before crashing into him. They landed hard on the ground, Al protectively atop Arthur, clenching his teeth so he wouldn't scream. The pain was excruciating. It felt like someone had taken red-hot knives to his back. He could feel his clothes burning, fire licking his skin. Then a great pile of snow was clumsily dropped on them, smothering the blaze and burying he and Arthur. The pressure of it hurt. It was solid and heavy, but Al forced himself to his knees to shelter his Magnus.

"AL!" Matt yelled, pulling off the snow. Al cried-out when Matt touched him, eyes watering in pain.

"Somebody call the Doctor, he needs the infirmiry!" said Francis. "Alfred? Arthur?"

"I'm alright, I'm fine," Arthur said meekly, looking up at Al. His frightened Lincoln-green eyes were the last things Al saw before he passed-out.

* * *

**ARTHUR**

Bloody-hell, you stupid fool!" Arthur clenched his fists, pacing the infirmary. He felt conflicted and couldn't relax. His heart was pounding, equally worried, angry, and sick with guilt. Al was drowsy from painkillers. He was lying on his stomach on a starch-white hospital cot, his broad back wrapped in bandages and layered with ice-packs to ease the inflammation: a victim of first-degree burns. Since Al had gotten treatment so quickly the burned tissue was unlikely to scar and Arthur was assured that the boy's body would heal. But Arthur still felt shaky. He couldn't forget the look of anguish on Al's face as he recklessly threw himself atop Arthur, crying-out in pain.

_It should be me lying on that bed suffering_, he thought. _Not my Magi_, _not Alfred_. Angry at himself for being so careless, he snapped at Al:

"You could've been killed! You deliberately threw yourself into danger, you idiot!"

"Hey, Artie," said Al, fighting sleep, "remember when I saved you from the firecrackers and you called me a hero? Can we do that again?" His tone was sarcastic, but he kept his blue eyes downcast. "Or you could just say _thank-you_ like a normal person instead of yelling at me."

Arthur stopped. He gaped at Al in disbelief. "_Thank-you_? For what, disobeying my orders? I told you to stay with me, to follow my lead!"

"I'm sorry!" Al snapped, but his tone lacked bite. Instead, Arthur was horrified to see the injured, drugged-up boy sucking back tears. It made himuncomfortable. "It was stupid, I shouldn't have left you. I should've been there to protect you, but I wasn't. I got carried away and I'm sorry for what happened, that you were so scared—"

"I was scared for _you_!" Arthur yelled, hands raised. "It's your well-being I care about, not mine! I was scared because you threw yourself into the fire, you bloody git! It's you I don't want to lose!"

He inhaled sharply, holding his breath. He could feel his cheeks heating as Al studied him, staring in wide-eyed fascination. A long silence stretched between them, both afraid to speak. Arthur felt compelled to retract his statement in embarrassment, favouring his pride, but the damage was done. Al's lips parted slightly in wonderment, looking dreamy. _Because of the drugs_,_ or something else_? When the boy spoke, his voice was unusually soft.

"Really—? You were worried about me?"

"Of course," Arthur replied. Sighing, he knelt beside the cot. "Alfred, you're my Magi. It's my responsibility to look after you, I promised I would. I'll always worry about you. You'll always be my priority."

"Oh," Al repeated, less awestruck. "Yeah, right... I'm your Magi," he said, lowering his eyes. "But I promised you too, didn't I? That I would protect you. And I always keep my promises."

"Yes," Arthur agreed. He touched Al's shoulder gently. "I can see that you do."

* * *

Al was asleep, snoring softly. Arthur was sitting in an uncomfortable chair beside him reading a book. It was late at night, quiet, and the only light shone from the standing-lamp beside the cot. Matt had been in twice already to check on Al, but his brother had been asleep both times. Arthur had reassured the anxious boy, complimenting his fast-thinking with the snow, even if it was clumsily executed. "Thank-you, Matthew, for saving us both," he smiled, which made Matt fidget and blush. He was undoubtedly a sweet boy. He had a habit of twisting an errant blonde curl around his finger when in the spotlight. It wasn't hard to see why Francis found him so endearing, but it was Al that occupied Arthur's thoughts as he tried to read; Al that Arthur found himself staring at. He felt unexpectedly tender toward the boy, wanting to touch him, to comb back that wheat-blonde cowlick and feel his soft, rosy cheeks. It was a feeling beyond obligation or straightforward lust, something that he didn't quite understand.

"I'm so sorry for not looking after you properly," he whispered, closing his book. He leant forward. "And for not being able to apologize to your face. Or admit that I don't just need you, Alfred, I want you—"

The door opened, revealing Francis. "Mathieu thought that you might be getting annoyed with his constant visits," he rolled his eyes ("as if anyone could get annoyed with my sweet Magi"), "so he sent me instead."

"Oh? Well you can tell him that I much prefer his company to yours," said Arthur, sitting back.

Francis inclined his head in mock-thanks. "How is he?"he asked, nodding at Al.

"He sleeps like the dead," Arthur replied, "which is good. He heals faster than anyone I've ever met. He'll be just fine, that's what the physician said. He gave Alfred a high dose of painkillers. He's pretty heavily sedated, which is for the best. He needs to sleep, to heal. He hasn't been able to eat anything, but that's to be expected. I'm not worried about it, Alfred has an unusually high—"

Arthur stopped when Francis' hand landed on his shoulder and squeezed. He pursed his lips and swallowed.

_Of course_, he thought in irony, _I've been able to hold it together all day for Alfred's sake_, _but as soon as the frog-eater shows up I fall apart._ It was shameful. _I'm a fully-grown man_, _an accomplished Magnus. I shouldn't be so shaken by this_. He tried to take a breath, but his voice shuttered, becoming a gasp. Francis sat down on the chair's arm and lowered his hand to the Englishman's back, rubbing gently in comradeship.

"It's okay to feel this way," he said. "It means you really care about him."

Arthur fought the urge to snap at Francis in denial. His chest felt tight. Instead, he said: "I was so scared. I don't think I've stopped worrying about him since the bonding. It's been forty-eight hours of constant fear," he confessed. "I keep thinking that something bad is going to happen to him, some delayed side-effect that'll strike when he least expects it. Do you remember Ivan's second partner, the little brunette? He was perfectly fine throughout the bonding, and then a few days later he just collapsed, went into cardiac-arrest and died within minutes. And he wasn't nearly as headstrong as Alfred. He didn't take any risks." _Sniff_. Absently, he took the tissue that Francis handed him. "I'm so afraid of something like that happening to Alfred. Ivan was distressed when his Magi unexpectedly died, but I—" Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, "—I can't lose him, Francis. It would actually destroy me. I know that now." A tear fell when he opened his eyes again, looking at Al.

"Believe me, I know," said Francis softly. "But you've got to relax, Arthur. Stop stressing. Otherwise _you'll_ be the one going into cardiac-arrest, and what will Alfred do without you?" Arthur recognized his own recycled advice. "I know you like control," Francis continued, rubbing his back. "You're a strategist, the unknown makes you anxious, but that's what life is: not knowing, not being able to plan every detail like a training regime. You're a good coach, Arthur, but a shitty Magnus." Arthur turned his head, frowning in teary-eyed insult. "It's true," Francis shrugged, not unkindly. "You've never trusted any of your Magis. I'm not even convinced that you really trust Alfred, even though he's proven himself to be trustworthy. He threw himself into the fire for you—"

"That's exactly why I can't trust him!" Arthur snapped, "because he's reckless. He doesn't think, he just acts on impulse and gets himself hurt!" He gestured to the bed. "A Magi should never act without his Magnus' permission. I've told him that a thousand times, but he doesn't listen! He's too young, too inexperienced. He doesn't—"

"Follow blindly?" Francis asked. "Arthur, Magi aren't slaves. They're not just tools for us to wield."

"I know that!"

"Do you? Because if you really believe what you've just said then it's no wonder you can't relinquish control. You think you're entitled to it just because you were born a Magnus and Alfred wasn't—?"

"No, that's not... true. It's my responsibility to take care of him, to teach him..."

Francis stood and faced his friend, eye-to-eye. Soberly, he said: "I knew you had a superiority-complex, but this just sounds imperial. Alfred won't be a rookie forever, and then what? What happens when he finally gets fed up with your orders, this social hierarchy you've invented? You said it yourself, he's a headstrong boy. He's not going to suffer in silence. He's going to fight you and _that's _how partners get truly hurt. Not because of latent side-effects, but because they can't compromise and don't trust each other."

Arthur stared thoughtfully at Francis, perplexed. Francis continued:

"Fortunately, it's not too late." His blue eyes glanced from Al to Arthur and he smiled. "He loves you, Arthur. As a Magnus, a friend, or something more, I don't know, but Alfred is a passionate person and isn't good at hiding his feelings. It's obvious that he loves you."

Arthur laughed in disbelief, a short exhale. "Yeah right," he said nervously. "If I'm really the monster you just described then how could he possibly love me?"

Francis cocked his head. "Don't you love him?"

"Yes, I obviously love him as a Magi, but anything more than that"—_anything I've told you in confidence—_"is just lust," he said, feeling suddenly defensive.

Francis sighed, blue-eyed gaze full of genuine pity. "You are so fucked-up," he said unexpectedly. "So certain that nobody could possibly love you that you reject the people who try because you're afraid. What on earth did love look like in your family that you can't even recognize it now?"

Arthur paused, eyeing the Frenchman skeptically. Admittedly, he was afraid to ask: "Recognize what?"

* * *

**ALFRED**

**THREE DAYS LATER**

I'm ready to start training again," said Al, feeling impatient.

His injured back had healed inhumanly fast, prompting fantastical rumours to spread through the Birdcage, some of which were exceptionally funny, but Arthur remained unconvinced. The Englishman had been unnaturally quiet since the accident and had watched Al recover from a distance (emotionally-speaking; physically he rarely left Al's side). But Al thought he could see something soft, almost sad and self-reflective, in Arthur's demeanor. _Hopeful thinking_, he mused. Was it awful that he _wanted _Arthur to worry about him? _Does it make me a terrible person that I find his distress desirable_? If nothing else, it made Al feel wanted.

In defeat, Arthur agreed to let Al resume training. "Don't push yourself too hard," he advised, leading Al into the pool-house. "Swimming is a good way to stretch your muscles without straining them. Just do as I tell you."

Al would've preferred another massage to relax his muscles, but feeling like he owed Arthur he obeyed. He wanted to play, pent-up energy wanting release; he wanted to race and splash and throw the lean-figured Englishman, listening to him shriek and curse. But Al resisted the urge, even when he caught Arthur staring at his half-naked body. He could feel the Magnus' fast heartbeat and the sexual tension between them.

_At least_,_ I think that's what this is_, he thought, feeling uncertain. _I just want to touch him_, _skin-to-skin_. _I want to feel his body against mine._

Instead, he followed Arthur's directions and completed his exercises. He didn't want to upset the Magnus. _I want him to trust me. I want him to be proud of me_, _like how Francis is proud of Mattie_—_unconditionally. Mattie could fuck-up royally and Francis would still praise him._ _I don't expect that sort of thing from Arthur_. The Englishman was not someone who gave praise that wasn't earned. _But it would be nice if he at least acknowledged how hard I'm working._ Al had known for a while how Arthur felt about him physically. Now that they were bonded, Al could feel the Magnus' body react to his temptation, and how hard Arthur was trying to suppress it. It made Al wonder: _Am I not good enough for you_?_ Is it only because of the bonding_ _that you feel physically attracted to me_?_ Is it just lust_? _Why won't you look me in the eye_?

Arthur was a domineering person; Al knew this. But over the following week he started to realize just how anal the Magnus could be. Frustrated, tense, and angry at himself, he was determined to teach Al his place, lecturing about a Magi's responsibilities. At first Al complied, determined to win Arthur's approval and affection; besides, Al really did want to impress him. But as July melted slowly into August, Al started to feel annoyed with Arthur, who had become more of a drill-sergeant than a coach.

Then one day in the pool-house Al's patience finally snapped.

"Stop ordering me around like I'm your fucking slave, Art! We're partners now, we're bonded. We should be training together like everyone else, like Francis and Matt. I'm not your student anymore so stop treating me like I'm your goddamn underling! Enough with the fucking superiority-complex! We're supposed to be equals, so stop playing this fucking S-and-M game with me!"

"Don't talk to me like that! That is _not_ what we are," Arthur snapped in denial. "It just seems that way from your perspective because you're not—"

"_Thinking_? Go ahead, Artie, insult my intelligence one more time," Al challenged.

Al was physically bigger and stronger than Arthur and he deliberately used his size to intimidate the Magnus. He stepped forward, forcing Arthur into retreat. He felt powerful. _I could snap him in half_, he thought aggressively, fired with lust and adrenaline. He just wanted to grab Arthur and _kiss him_, he realized. Electricity heated his blood in anticipation. To Arthur's credit he didn't scare easy, but Al could see that he was uncomfortable. He kept his gaze turned away.

"Tell me the truth," Al said seriously. "Do you think of me as your property? Because if that's the case then I can't do this. I'll quit right now." _I love you_,_ but—_ "I refuse to be someone else's tool."

Quietly, Arthur said: "We're all someone else's tool."

Al waited for him to explain himself, but he didn't. The Magnus just stood silently in front of him, refusing to meet Al's eyes. His heart pounded nervously as he waited, feeling electricity heat his veins as a plethora of unwanted emotions flooded him: sad, angry, desperate, aroused. His throat felt dry. He felt hot. He clenched and unclenched his hands. He wanted to grab Arthur and shake him, hold him, crush him in a tight embrace and _make_ the Englishman understand just how strongly he felt; how much he really loved the infuriating, know-it-all, short-tempered, cold-hearted Magnus against all his expectations.

Maybe it was a post-bonding compulsion, or pure teenage hormones, but, in that moment, Al wanted Arthur more than he had ever wanted anything in his whole life.

_I want us to be together_, he thought in self-realization. _I love him_,_ I wish he would accept that. I want to be the only person he thinks about_:_ his hero._ _Please_, he gazed at Arthur,_ just listen to me. Just look at me_!

Finally, Arthur said:

* * *

**ARTHUR**

I can't change who I am, Alfred."

_No matter how much I want to_,_ I can't. I've tried_,_ but everyone leaves me. _Arthur had never known the popularity that Francis and the others had. He was isolated: everyone's ally, but nobody's friend. _It's why I've never been able to bond with a Magi before_. _It's why I can't trust anyone._

_I wanted it to be different with you_. _I thought the bonding would make it different_,_ but I was wrong. This is harder than I could have imagined. I care for you so much it hurts. If this is love_,_ then I don't want it. It's too hard_. _My heart feels like it's going to beat out of my chest. I feel like I'm going to break_.

Suddenly, Al kissed him.

It took Arthur completely off-guard. _What the—_?

It took a moment before he could really register what was happening: that Al's lips were pressed against his, forceful and clumsy. Shocked—even frightened—Arthur tried to pull back, but Al grabbed his shoulders and held him. He stared at the boy's face in disbelief. Al's eyes were squeezed shut. His hands clenched Arthur desperately, drawing the two of them together. His skin was warm against Arthur's, chest-to-chest, and his touch was literally electrified. _What's happening_? Arthur felt overwhelmed, flooded with suppressed desire that wasn't only his. _I can feel Alfred's thoughts and desires_! _Oh God_,_ can he feel mine too_? Again he tried to push the impulsive North American off, but it was useless. Al wouldn't let go and Arthur didn't want him too. Briefly they broke apart, both breathing hard, and met each other's hungry gaze. Then Arthur lost himself. He lost control and reached for Al, wrapping his arms around the boy's neck and pulled him back. Eyes closed, he kissed the boy deeply, trying to guide him, but Al was stubborn and wouldn't be led. In retaliation, he forced Arthur back against the wall. Arthur moaned helplessly, thinking: _This is so wrong..._

But he didn't stop. He wanted more. He wanted everything Al could give him.

Then Al pulled back, panting. "You want this, don't you? Tell me you do," he growled. His tone was unlike himself. It was commanding and it sparked something defensive in Arthur, a shred of delicious fear that felt so alike arousal. Al leant in so close that Arthur could feel the heat of his breath. "You're such a fucking control-freak on the surface, but you crave danger and excitement. You want to be reckless, don't you?" he asked seductively. "Deep down you want to submit." He nipped Arthur's bottom lip teasingly and Arthur leant instinctively forward. Al pulled back. A victorious smirk lifted his lips. He looked smug. It fueled Arthur's temper.

"Shut up," he said breathlessly, feeling broken by Al. He had been holding back for so long, he couldn't do it anymore. Abandoning his resolve, he forced their lips back together.

_For just a little while_, he thought shamelessly,_ shut up and let me have you._


	10. Chapter Ten

**DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya**

**BIRDSONG**

* * *

**TEN**

**FRANCIS**

Is that a hickey?" asked Francis in surprise. Arthur slapped a hand over his neck, but it only made it impossible to deny and the Englishman didn't try. He did, however, have the decency to look mildly ashamed of his reaction. It was just a love-bite, something that—in Francis' thinking—Arthur had needed for months. The Englishman was so tense, always stressed. It was good for him to let go and relax. It was the reason why Francis resisted the urge to tease him about it, no matter how naturally japes popped into his head. Instead, he said: "Does this mean that you and Alfred have reconciled?"

"_Pft_, hardly. I think it just complicated things more. It was so ungodly awkward this morning between us, especially during training."

Francis said: "But you didn't—?"

"No, no, of course not! We just snogged for a while," he admitted, blushing. "Honestly, I don't know what I'm going to do about it. I don't know how to approach him. We used to be just Magnus and Magi, bonded together. It was so much simpler. Now... I don't know what we are to each other."

Francis shook his head. He had watched several couples in the Birdcage suffer the same confusion, even fear, but he always gave them the same advice when asked. From his perspective, the solution was obvious: "Just tell him how you feel. You'll never understand each other if you can't even talk about it. Isn't that what you're always lecturing, Arthur, how important communication is between partners? I think it's _you_ who needs a lesson in trust exercises, not Alfred." He looked at his friend, thinking of Matt. _At least Alfred hasn't rejected you yet. You can still do something about it._

As if on-cue, Arthur changed the subject. "How is Matthew?" he asked.

"Oh, he's fine. His training is going really well. He's such a diligent student. He doesn't complain and doesn't stop practicing until he's achieved perfection. It's exhausting. He sleeps a lot better now, but I'm a little worried that he'll wear himself out. He's trying to make-up for lost time, observing others, but he doesn't have the discipline they have. I feel like his mama sometimes, nagging at him to eat and relax. I don't want him to get sick. Have you seen him lately? Does he look sick to you, pale or underfed?"

"Slow down, Mother Francis," Arthur teased. "I'm sure he's fine. In fact, I admire his dedication."

"Of course you do, you drill-sergeant," Francis grumbled.

They met Al and Matt in the garden. The boys were wrestling, yelling and laughing and play-fighting like the lighthearted youths they were. It was a swelteringly hot August day and both of them were shirtless and glistening with beads of sweat. Matt jumped on Al's back in attack, and Al grabbed his brother's long legs and fell backwards, crushing Matt. He flipped over and pinned Matt, tickling him mercilessly as Matt shrieked, gasping in laughter. Both were flushed and breathing hard. The two Magnus stopped at a safe distance, just watching.

Only half-joking, Francis said: "Is my nose bleeding yet?"

Arthur smacked him in disapproval. He cleared his throat, and called: "Alfred?"

Francis wanted to smack Arthur when the play abruptly stopped. Following the age-old proverb _strength in numbers_, the two Magnus decided to train as a group today to avoid any individual discomfort. It worked surprisingly well. Al and Matt were much more comfortable together than either of them was alone with his Magnus. It made Francis feel jealous of Al, watching the closeness the brothers shared. They managed to turn training into a game, feeding off the other's magic, which produced powerful results. It drew the attention of several others in the vicinity, whom Arthur told to bugger-off. Both Magnus were protective of the young Magis, and both Magis were receptive to the four-person regime. It gave Matt a break from exhausting himself, and it gave Al the eager chance to show-off (which he loved to do). Arthur repositioned Matt's stance, showing him better posture when spell-casting, and Francis taught Al how to use water to conduct his electricity. Al and Matt loved to tag-team in attack and defense, and since Francis and Arthur knew the other's style and intentions so well, the foursome found that they worked well as a team. "I bet together we're the most powerful team!" Al bragged. Francis loved that the boys were having so much fun. He only wished that he and Matt could have the same fun when they trained alone.

He loved being Matt's friend and Magnus, but he couldn't deny that he wanted more. He wanted to hold him, and kiss him. He wanted to protect him, and teach him, and spoil him. He wanted to trust Matt with his dreams and secrets, his life. Now that he knew the taste of Matt's body, not being able to touch him felt like withdrawal; like an addict desperate for relapse. Every time he looked at Matt, his heart ached.

_But I can't force myself on him. It would only prove all of those horrid rumours about me true._

Francis sighed in resignation. Was there anything as sad as unrequited love?

But he had done everything he could to win Matt. All he could do now was wait and hope that someday Matt would reconsider and accept his feelings and—just maybe—reciprocate.

* * *

**ARTHUR**

Arthur rapped his fist gently on Francis' door. Francis wasn't in, but he knew Matt was. The boy had asked to borrow a meteorology book from Arthur's library after the Magnus had suggested he do some studying. Matt opened the door and smiled. He was freshly showered and towel-drying his curls, wearing a too-big t-shirt and shorts. "Thank-you," he said, taking the book. Then he paused, noting Arthur's hesitance. "Do you, err... want to come in?"

"Actually, if you don't mind... Are you expecting Francis back anytime soon?"

Matt eyed him warily as he stepped inside. "Err... no. He's at Antonio's. Is something wrong?"

"Oh, no. I just wanted to talk to you alone," Arthur explained. Matt's posture relaxed, but he kept a curious eye on the Magnus. Arthur pretended not to notice. Politely, Matt offered him refreshments:

"There are maple cookies and fresh coffee, or I could make tea if you prefer? I think we have—"

"Matthew," Arthur interrupted. "I didn't come here for tea and biscuits. I want to talk to you about Francis. May I sit?" He sat down on the settee and invited Matt to join him. Matt did, holding the meteorology book on his lap. He cocked his pale-blonde head expectantly and Arthur wondered where he should begin. _I shouldn't be doing this_, he reconsidered, _this is none of my business_. That's what he had told Al. But Francis had looked so forlorn today, and after all of the advice he had shared with Arthur—_he was so supportive when Alfred was in the infirmary_—Arthur felt like he owed the Frenchman. _It's not my place to meddle in their relationship_,_ but at least I can tell Matthew the truth_.

Folding his hands, he said: "I'm not good at heart-to-heart conversations so I'm just going to say this bluntly. Francis is in love with you, Matthew. Whether you reciprocate or not is your choice, but he really does love you."

Matt sighed as if the topic was already exhausted. It wasn't the reaction Arthur had been expecting. "Look, I admire your loyalty," he said politely, "but this isn't high-school, Arthur. If Francis put you up to this, then I—"

"No, he hasn't! That's not it at all!" Arthur insisted. "Oh bollocks, perhaps I've given you the wrong idea. It's true that Francis and I have been through a lot together and I certainly owe him, but that's not what this is. Matthew, Francis is my... best mate." Arthur paused, letting that sink-in before he continued. "I don't like seeing him get hurt. That's why you can trust me. I'm not a liar and I wouldn't be talking up that bloody frog-eater if it wasn't the truth."

"Alright," Matt conceded, staring coldly at Arthur. "Then tell me I'm not just Francis' eighth conquest."

The words seemed hard for Matt to speak, voicing a fear. He looked self-conscious despite his icy demeanor, and Arthur felt a stab of sympathy for him (he knew the feeling well).

Earnestly, he said: "You're not, I promise." But he could hear the doubt in Matt's voice:

"How do you know that? Is it because of the bonding?"

"Partially, yes," Arthur admitted. "But mostly it's because two people simply can't be bonded unless they're compatible. They have to be right for each other."

"But it's possible for a Magnus to have more than one Magi, isn't it? Gil told me. Sometimes if a Magi dies his Magnus can bond with another Magi."

"That's extremely rare!" Arthur insisted, but it was hopeless. His fumbled urging wasn't convincing Matt of anything except that Arthur lacked eloquence. In honestly, he was probably just digging Francis' grave, ensuring that the Frenchman never had sex again. _This was a mistake. Maybe I should just go._ He started to stand and Matt didn't stop him. He just sat quietly, thoughtfully.

Halfway to the door, Arthur paused.

"Matthew," he said seriously, "do you know why I believe that Francis loves you? Because he told me so. I've been with him for seven years and, yes, he's had eight other Magis, but none of them lasted. I did. I've been with him from the beginning. I know him better than anyone else, even Antonio. I've seen him at his best and at his worst. So if you won't trust him, trust me. Francis has always been infatuated with love and romance, not sex. It's always been his fondest wish to fall in love with his Magi. _If I have to spend the rest of my life bonded to someone_, _I want to be in love with them_. That's what he told me once. That's why he always tried so hard in the past to get close to his partners, probably too hard. He tried to force it and that's where it always went wrong. It's true that he's shagged other Magi," he said. Matt flinched. "But it's never been a game to him. It's always been because he was looking for genuine love. And now he's found it."

"Me—?" Matt asked quietly.

"You, Matthew. I've watched Francis with other Magi, believing himself to be in love, but he wasn't. I can see that now and so can he. You're the only one he's ever truly been in love with. I know it's your decision," said Arthur as he neared the door, "but before you make it, tell me one thing: tell me you're _not_ in love with him, too."

Matt was silent for so long that Arthur sighed in defeat and started to leave. Then, just as he reached for the doorknob, Matt looked up and said:

"Tell me you're not in love with my brother."

* * *

**FRANCIS**

Francis accompanied Antonio and Lovino down to supper, expecting to find their table in the dining-hall full, but it wasn't. Al sat against the window looking distracted as he argued with Gilbert. When asked, he reported: "Mattie's not hungry, he's upstairs studying, and I have no idea where Artie ran off to. I haven't seen him since this afternoon." He shrugged and shifted in discomfort. Unlike Matt, his face was easy to read. (He would have made a bad poker-player.) "Is he, err... avoiding me?" he asked Francis in concern. "Because I thought that we were, you know... getting along pretty well. Did he say anything to you?"

"No," Francis replied. "Arthur is just preoccupied" _with you_,_ Alfred_. "Don't worry, I'm sure he's fine."

Twenty minutes later, Francis found Arthur pacing back-and-forth in the empty common-room, panicking. He stopped in the doorway and watched the flustered Englishman muttering to himself. He looked distressed. Finally, Francis interrupted:

"Arthur, are you okay?"

"Yes... no, I don't know. I think I'm..." Arthur pulled at his shirt-collar, unbuttoning the top. "I think I... but I can't, it's ridiculous. It's only been, like, two months. I hardly know him... he's just a teenager. I can't really be in love with Alfred." The instant the words left his lips he knew that they were wrong. Francis could see it. His freckled skin paled as the verbal confession overwhelmed him, mouth falling open in a perfect O of surprise. "Oh God... I'm in love with Alfred. I can't... Oh God. Is it hot in here? Francis, I can't breathe," he said, fanning himself. "I think I'm—"

"Having a panic-attack?" Francis put a supportive hand on Arthur's back and led him outside. Avoiding the guards, he took Arthur into the empty garden. "Idiot Englishman, you're the only person I know of who would have a panic-attack over being in love. Deep breaths," he advised, rubbing Arthur's back as he gulped down mouthfuls of air. "I can't believe it took you so long to realize. It's so obvious that you're smitten with Alfred. You stare at him every chance you get and you talk about him and worry about him more than anyone else. He infuriates you, that's a telling sign. You're not as discrete as you think, especially not since the bonding succeeded. You've been very tense. Sexually frustrated?" he guessed.

"Oh, fuck. I knew I was attracted to him, but love?" Arthur reddened. "Francis, I've been a total twat to him! It's a wonder that he doesn't hate me! And now... I don't know what to do!"

Francis exhaled in exasperation and repeated for the umpteenth time: "Tell him how you feel!"

"_Tell him I love him_? No." Arthur denied. "That doesn't sound like something I would do."

Francis opened his mouth to disagree, but closed it again. "You're right," he acknowledged. "The English are such an unromantic people."

"Oi! I resent that," said Arthur in defense. He swatted at Francis. "Belittle me, frog-eater, but don't insult my culture. I'll remind you that some of the most romantic stories in history are English."

"Yes," Francis said skeptically, "but aren't most English love stories predicated on one or both lovers dying? It seems like a lot of unnecessary tragedy for the sake of confessing your feelings."

Arthur paused, wanting to defend the literary genius of his countrymen, but found himself lacking for words. Instead, he said: "Perhaps I needn't tell Alfred anything at all. I mean, if my feelings are so obvious then shouldn't he already know? He's not that dense. And I _have _ implied that I'm, err... very fond of him."

"Oh! You're _fond of him_?" Francis faked excitement. "My goodness, you'll make me blush with that kind of talk. How could Alfred _not_ know that you're head-over-heels in love with him?"

Arthur frowned. "Oh, shut up, Francis. Just tell me what to do."

* * *

**ARTHUR**

_We're barely even friends_, Arthur considered as he journeyed upstairs. _A few weeks ago Alfred considered me as the enemy_, _he hated me. What changed between us_, _and in such a short time_?

Francis and Matt had been effected by the bonding. _Had they been overwhelmed by lust_ _or love_? Whatever it was, Arthur had seen the messy aftermath of it. The suddenness had left Francis pining and Matt completely closed off. _Matthew must've been scared_, Arthur thought. Secretly, he could relate. He was nervous about confessing to Al. Then he shook his head. _I'm comparing myself to a teenager_! _For fuck's sake_,_ I'm twenty-years-old_! _Why do I feel so nervous about this_? _I'm so terrible at intimacy_, he acknowledged. But knowing didn't stop the pounding of his heart. It only made it beat faster. _If I cock this up_,_ I can't escape. I'm bonded to Alfred_,_ I'll be stuck with him forever_.

But Francis was right. He and Al had to stop dancing around the issue and confront what was between them. _I know you feel the same way I do_, _Alfred. You're not a subtle person. You wouldn't have kissed me like that if you didn't like me_,_ right_? _I know you love me_,_ too._

_ I hope you love me_,_ too._

Cautiously, Arthur pushed into his apartment. "A-Alfred?" he called in a high-pitched voice. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Alfred, are you here?"

"Yeah." Al's voice carried from inside the bedroom, proceeding his appearance. He stopped in the doorframe, looking curious. He was already dressed for bed—undressed, really—wearing only a sleeveless white t-shirt and boxer-shorts. It revealed his strong limbs and a healthy amount of suntanned skin. His big eyes looked exceptionally blue in the overhead light. He shifted. "Is something, err... wrong, Artie? You look kind of... pink."

Al's acknowledgement only made Arthur blush deeper. He felt too hot. _Why am I so helpless when I'm near you_? he wondered. It was so illogical. _If this is love then it's bloody hard_! "I-I'm fine. I just, err... I just wanted to tell you..." Al blinked expectantly (_just like Matthew—my God_,_ they're similar_). Feeling like a coward, he forced himself forward until he was standing right in front of Al, looking up at the young wannabe-hero whom he was undeniably in love with. "Alfred, I—" _Just say it_! "I love you!" he blurted.

Taken aback, Al stared as if he had been slapped. "You _what_?" Wide-eyed, his lips curled into a nervous grin. "Come on, Artie. Is this one of those dumb British jokes you make that I don't get?" he asked in jest, but he sounded winded. His eyes hadn't left Arthur's face.

"No, you bloody prat!" Arthur snapped in reflex. Then: "I mean, no. I really am in love with you, Alfred."

Al stared at him, unblinking. Quickly, Arthur continued:

"I don't really understand it myself, it's confusing. This feeling is unexpected, but I know it's real. I've never felt this way before and, honestly, I don't know what to do about it. Francis said I should just tell you," he blamed the Frenchman. "I hope it was the right thing to do. I hope it doesn't make things awkward between us. I just thought that maybe, since you kissed me last night, you might... feel the same? You might... love me, too? Or at least not hate me like you used to!" he hurried, feeling increasingly foolish. Al's face was uncharacteristically stoic; his silent stare was unnerving. Arthur clenched his fists and turned away. "Oh, never-mind. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—"

Al grabbed the back of Arthur's neck and pulled him forward, forcing their lips together. Like last night, he lifted the Magnus' chin and kissed him deeply. Then he pulled back and smiled.

"You're so weird," he said huskily. "I never hated you, Artie.

"And I do." Al kissed Arthur again. "Love you, too. I think a part of me always has."

* * *

The lights flickered. Arthur felt giddy and lightheaded, the bedroom seemed to spin around as Al kissed him. He held the boy close between his legs, squeezing his thighs against Al's sides. Al's weight pressed down on him, trapping him. A jolt of panic speared him and then quickly subsided. He didn't fight Al's dominance. He felt weak, but not defeated. Relinquishing control was a foreign feeling, but not scary. It was as if this was exactly where he was supposed to be. He was breathing hard, unable to steady his racing heartbeat. He was fearful in anticipation, but also desperate with desire. As he moaned and writhed beneath Al, sweat glistening on his skin; as Al's supple lips moved lower, sucking in clumsy decline, Arthur felt small and helpless, but safe. And wanted for the first time in his life. He squeezed his eyes closed and wrapped his arms around Al's neck, wanting to be closer to him; wanting to give himself completely over to Al. _I love you_, he thought, his lips pinched together to keep from moaning. His body tensed. He could feel Al's hard, slick cock against his naked skin. _I love you_, _Alfred. I—_

"I love you," Al whispered. He kissed Arthur tenderly. "Do you love me?"

"Yes."

"Do you want me?"

"Yes."

"Do you trust me?"

Pause.

"Yes."

Holding his Magnus, Al pushed his cock into Arthur's body. A surge of raw electricity rocked them both, like nothing either of them had ever felt. It was overwhelmingly powerful. Al sunk deeper, pushing himself in farther, lost somewhere between pleasure and disbelief. He groaned loudly, moving instinctively into a fast-paced rocking rhythm. Arthur squeezed his eyes shut and cried-out in pain and pleasure, unable to contain his voice. It was hot and fast and felt, _oh_! so good having Al's cock work inside of him, making him feel things he had never felt before. He could feel Al, body and mind. Arthur let himself drown in the intense feelings that flooded him, so complex and yet so, so simple. It was good. Being together like this just felt _right_. Arthur hugged Al close as the Magi panted in effort. His fingers raked Al's back as the tension building inside of him reached a breaking-point. "_Ah—Alfred_!" he gasped.

And every light-bulb in the bedroom blew-out.

* * *

**FRANCIS**

The minute Francis walked through the bedroom door he found himself engulfed in Matt: his fervent touch, soft lips, and sweet scent. The boy had practically thrown himself on Francis, like a drowning-victim. His hands were fisted in Francis' shirtfront and their lips were locked together in a primal dance. Momentarily stunned, Francis merely stood there as the Magi kissed him. Then he pulled back.

"Mathieu, what are you doing?"

Helplessly, Matt looked up at him. "I-I don't know," he admitted. "I just wanted you... again."

Francis grabbed Matt's shoulders, which stopped him getting closer. "You _want me_?" he repeated in hopeful disbelief. Matt pursed his lips. Francis could see the boy's fingers flexing, longing to tug self-consciously at that errant curl. Wordlessly, he nodded. Francis felt his stomach flip. "Do you... love me? Because I won't just do sex, Mathieu," he said sternly. "Despite what you might think, that's not who I am. I won't take advantage of..." _your feelings for me_? _Or is it my feelings for you_? It didn't matter. "I think I've made my feelings for you perfectly clear, _chéri_. I want you more than anything, and that won't ever change, but I think you're feeling conflicted and that's why you're doing this." He led Matt to the bed and made him sit. Then he gently lifted the boy's chin, facing him eye-to-eye. "I don't want to play games with you, so before we do anything more I need you to give me a straight answer. Are you in love with me, or not?"

Matt hesitated. He looked so beautiful in the red sunset, so young. Meekly, he shrugged. "I don't know."

Francis sighed. It had been a strange day. _First Arthur_, _now Mathieu_. _What happened to them today_? But the Frenchman didn't have the energy left to puzzle-out Matt's feelings, especially if the boy was undecided. It was too complicated, and Francis was afraid that a late-night debate would weaken his resolve. (Or break his heart into even smaller pieces.) Forgoing the chance to fuck Matt was a cruel test of his crumbling self-restraint, so he simply pressed a chaste kiss to the boy's temple, and said:

"_Bonne-nuit_, _chéri_."


	11. Chapter Eleven

**DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya**

**BIRDSONG**

* * *

**ELEVEN**

**MATTHEW**

Hey, Mattie?" Al pondered. He was sitting beside Matt on a rock-wall in the garden, kicking his legs. "When you and Francis had sex the first time, did your magic go kind of haywire?"

Matt resisted the urge to punch his brother. Instead he clenched the wall with white-knuckled hands, leaving frost prints. "Al, I'm really not in the mood for this right now." Al cocked his blonde head, shining like a lion's mane in the afternoon sunlight, and playfully shifted closer. He opened his mouth, but Matt interrupted: "If you want to know so badly how it feels then why don't you just go and fuck Arthur?" he snapped. He said it irrationally, but Al's reaction made him stop and reconsider. He was expecting an immediate denial from Al, but instead the blue-eyed boy leant forward and bit his cheek to keep from grinning. Matt blinked at him. "Oh my God, you already did."

"Yeah—twice," Al said giddily. "That was my way of telling you."

Matt sighed. "_Why_?"

"Because, as it so happens, I'm in love with him."

"Oh, God," Matt groaned moodily. "If I have to hear another love confession, I'm going to scream. What is it with these people? Do they put something in the water in this place?"

Al cocked an eyebrow. "Mattie, you okay? Did something happen between you and Francis?"

"NO."

After apologizing to Al, who merely blinked in confusion, Matt stood up. "I'm just going to go for a walk." He climbed the mountain path, glad for the chance to be alone for the first time in months. The Birdcage, though vast, was so crowded that it was hard to find a place to be alone. He hiked to the mountain peak and walked out onto the wooden platform, letting the wind toss his curls. It was stronger here then on the ground and drowned out the sounds of training from below. Matt lifted his face and closed his eyes. He had never felt homesick before. His home in North America had been an isolated place, just he and Al. He had never thought he would miss it, _but now I'll never see it again._ He clenched his fists, wondering, not for the first time: _Why did this happen to me_? _Why _me? Maybe if he had of met Francis under different circumstances he would be more certain about his feelings for the Frenchman. Maybe he would feel as strongly for him as Al apparently did for Arthur. _I wish that I had met Francis elsewhere_. _I wish this wasn't so forced_. He sighed in self-pity. He sat down and hugged his knees to his chest, resting his chin on his arms.

"I wasn't expecting to find anyone here."

Matt looked up in surprise. "Oh, Bjørn."

The pale-eyed Norwegian was standing behind him, his hair whipping in the wind, except for what was held back by a shiny gold hairpin. "I'm sorry, I'll go." Matt started to rise, avoiding Bjørn's unblinking gaze. The other Magi was average-height and slender like Matt, but his presence was glacial. His Magnus might have been a big, strong man, but Bjørn's coldness was more intimidating than Mikkel's fists. Matt walked quickly past him, but stopped when Bjørn said:

"It's hard to get close to someone when there's ice in your blood."

"Pardon?"

Bjørn glanced back at him and a knowing smile ghosted over his lips. "You're good a hiding your emotions, Matt, but the magic doesn't lie, especially not after a successful bonding." He gestured to the bench and Matt sat down beside him, curious. "You're young," Bjørn said sagely.

"You can't be that much older than I am," Matt countered. Bjørn's unlined face was fair and youthful.

"I'm twenty-five," he said, surprising Matt. "So is Mick. We've been bonded for twelve years and we've been sold to buyers twice. Did you know that?" Dumbfounded, Matt shook his head. In reply, Bjørn pushed the pale hair off the back of his neck and leant in closer, revealing—_a tattoo_? Matt frowned. Then his eyes grew wide in realization._ It's a brand_. He could see the geometric indent where the Doctor's sigil had been forcibly pressed into the Norwegian's white skin. It was charcoal-black and shaped like a warped Celtic knot; the same symbol that adored the Birdcage's iron gate. "It's like a packing-stamp," Bjørn said tonelessly. "An trademark to remind the buyer where his product came from. Mick has it too.

"The first time," he narrated, "we were bought to be soldiers. The second time, assassins. It wasn't as horrible as you might think. We had a lot more freedom there then we do here. We went a lot of places; we saw a lot of things. I suppose we're lucky we survived. These are dangerous times, you know, and it wasn't long before we had outlived both of our patrons. When that happens the Doctor's men bring you back here. The second time it happened, Mick wanted to run away. He wanted to leave before they could force us to come back, but I..." He paused; looked away. "It was in Iceland that they finally caught us, because I let sentiment guide my actions. Mick got hurt helping Sigurður escape. Sigurður is my younger brother," he clarified. "Then the Doctor's men drugged he and I and brought us back here. We spent seven months in _rehabilitation_," he spat the word like poison.

"I didn't know that you had a brother," Matt said gently.

"He attends prep-school in Iceland. He was only two-years-old when I was taken by the Doctor's men. The last time I saw him, he was eleven. Now he's fourteen. By the time I get out of here again, he'll be all grown up."

"Is he like you? I mean, can he use magic?" Matt asked.

"If he can, it hasn't manifested yet. I hope it never does. I don't want this for Sigurður." Bjørn indicated the Birdcage. "But I do miss him," he admitted. "I shouldn't have gone to him back then, to Iceland. It was risky and it's what got us caught, but I wanted to see him. He's the only family I have. The thing is, Mick didn't argue with me. He didn't even try to convince me not to go, not that it would've changed anything. My mind was set. I told him he didn't have to come with me. We were free, after all, for however short a time. We didn't have to be together as Magnus and Magi, but he didn't listen. He followed me and it cost him a great deal of pain. But if it wasn't for him, Sigurður would have been captured with us. Sometimes the Doctor's men do that. They'll take the blood-relatives of magic-users in the hope that they'll develop powers. If not, they keep them here for... spare parts." Bjørn's impassive face changed ever so slightly, showing signs of ire.

Matt's face twisted in horror. Meekly, he said: "I'm sorry."

"You have a habit of apologizing for things that aren't your fault, Matt, or things which you have no control over," Bjørn replied. "I appreciate the sentiment, but it's unnecessary. Mick and Sigurður are both alive and safe, no thanks to me. I know what it's like to possess ungodly amounts of power, yet to feel completely helpless. I know how hard it is to let yourself get close to someone when there's ice in your blood. It makes us appear cold and distant, but it doesn't mean we're heartless. The ice isn't a bad thing, you know. It's balance. It's beautiful and dangerous; quiet but fierce. And it's necessary. Spring's thaw wouldn't be half as lovely without winter's frost, nor would it flourish half as well. Ice is part of the cycle of rebirth. It's memory. It preserves to protect. That's how our magic works, Matt. You and I both have a Magnus who is self-destructive in his own way. They need us to take care of them as much as we need them. It was a hard lesson learned for Mick and I.

"Everyone calls me a prodigy," he said, unimpressed. "Everyone likes to joke about it, but what none of them understands is that power is coveted and it corrupts everything it touches. It's a constant battle to keep from losing yourself. Magi like you and Al and I need unshakable partners whom we can trust, otherwise our magic will consume us. During our bonding, I almost killed Mick." Bjørn paused for a split-second. If Matt hadn't been so focused on the Norwegian's narrative, he would have missed it. "They call me a prodigy because I mastered my magic at thirteen, an early age, but I didn't do it because I wanted to. I did it because I had to. It was vital that I learnt to control my magic, or risk losing Mick.

"I trust you understand that this conversation is between you and I, Matt," he noted, "which is why I don't mind telling you how much Mick means to me now. He and my brother are all I have and I love them, which is why I force myself to be honest. I'm not good at expressing myself or sharing my feelings, but as long as I don't keep secrets from myself, I know we'll be alright. You've experienced first-hand how dangerous things like fear and guilt can be—? Well, indecision is the same. It weighs you down; it feeds the chaos. That's why you can't be afraid of yourself, your magic. You don't have to share, but it's best to acknowledge your feelings for what they are. It doesn't do you any good to deny them. You can't stop feeling them, after all.

"Do you understand why I've told you all this?"

Slowly, Matt nodded. "Yes, I think so. It's just..."

He paused, fingering an errant curl anxiously as he chanced a shy glance at the twenty-five-year-old prodigy. Bjørn had always been intimidating, but he seemed much more approachable now that Matt knew a little more about him. (He wondered how many people in the Birdcage knew about Bjørn and Mikkel's past; Matt guessed few.) Mostly, however, he had nobody else to confide in. Despite their difference in heritage and demeanor, there was something comforting about Bjørn; something vaguely familiar. _His eyes are the exact same colour as mine_, Matt realized.

"I don't trust myself," he confessed quietly. "Everything is changing so quickly and everyone else seems to know exactly what to do. Al's adapted so well, but I'm afraid of making the wrong decision. I don't want to disappoint Francis, but everything is changing too fast. This power is overwhelming. So are these feelings. I'm trying to keep up with it all, but it's hard. I love Francis, I think. But what if I'm wrong? What if it's just the bonding that's making me feel this way? How do I know if it's real?"

"You'll know," said Bjørn reticently. "I can't explain how, but it'll hit you like an avalanche and you'll know."

"When did you—?"

Matt instantly regretted the question. He felt nosey, prying into Bjørn's personal life, which was something the stubborn Norwegian obviously disliked. He was about to retract it, when Bjørn said:

"In Iceland. Mick risked his life to follow me, protect me, and then he sacrificed himself to save us. It was reckless and foolish and the bravest thing anyone's ever done for me. I love and hate him for it. I have never been so scared in my entire life. I thought he was going to die. Then on the flight back to the Birdcage, he awoke briefly and smiled up at me. That's when I knew I loved him."

"But that was only four years ago," Matt calculated. "You said that you've been together for twelve—?"

Bjørn nodded and his lips slowly lifted in a tender smile. It touched his violet eyes, bringing life into his stoic face. It was beautiful. "Yes, that's right. It's not always love-at-first-sight, you know. That's fictional. More often than not, it takes time—sometimes a _very _long time—but it doesn't make it any less true when you realize it and it doesn't mean it's worth any less. It's okay that you don't love Francis right now, Matt, maybe you never will." Bjørn shrugged. "Not all Magnus-Magi relationships develop romantically, but I guarantee that if you give everything you have to your partnership, you won't regret it. You might never have romantic love, but you will have trust and loyalty and security and a friendship strong enough to last a lifetime."

Slowly, comforted by Bjørn's words, Matt smiled. "It doesn't sound so bad when you put it like that."

"No," Bjørn agreed, "it's not."

* * *

Matt and Bjørn walked in comfortable silence as they descended the mountain path, both preoccupied. The wind was blowing hard now and it threatened to knock them both over. Matt noticed that Bjørn kept his head bowed against the wind with one hand braced against his temple, protecting his gold hairpin.

"Is that from Norway?" he asked above the wind. It was shaped like a Nordic cross. "Is it from your home?"

"Yes and no," Bjørn answered. "It was a gift from Mick. The first time we were sold, we were stationed just north of Oslo. When our patron died we were sent straight back to the Birdcage, but before we left Mick bought this for me"—he tapped the hairpin—"so that, wherever I was, I would always have a little piece of home."

"That's really thoughtful," said Matt.

Bjørn didn't reply, but nor did he let go of his hairpin.

They reached the Birdcage just as the sky opened and it started pouring. It was a warm August shower that drenched the entire mountain. They retreated into the common-room, where the majority of residents were watching a football game on the television. Al was leaning against the back of the couch, laughing at Arthur, who was arguing fervently with Antonio about the players, but his smile faded when he saw Matt. He jogged over.

"Hey, Mattie." Curiously, he glanced between Matt and Bjørn. "Is everything okay? You feeling better?"

"Yes," Matt said honestly. He smiled in good-faith.

He spotted Francis sitting back on a recliner beside the couch and instead of the unease and tension that had plagued him since the bonding, he felt genuinely glad to see him. Bjørn was right. _I don't have to decide if I love him right now_. _I don't have to force myself. As long as I'm honest with myself_, _I can throw away my insecurities and just let it happen naturally. I can just be with him like before._ In the week before the bonding ceremony, Matt had valued Francis' friendship more than anything else. _Maybe I shouldn't have kissed him on the mountaintop_, he considered,_ but just because I'm a little uncertain about the future doesn't mean I don't care about him._

When Francis' eyes met Matt's, the boy smiled at him. _For now this is enough._

"Excuse me," he said to Bjørn, who nodded, and to Al, who shrugged and stepped aside.

_I'm sorry I've been so indecisive_, he thought as he approached the Frenchman. _But there is one thing I know for certain_:_ I love you_,_ Francis. _Maybe not romantically—yet—but he loved Francis as a friend, as a comrade, even as a crush. _I love you and I need you and I'm lucky to have you in my life._

* * *

**FRANCIS**

May I sit with you?" Matt asked.

Francis shifted sideways, making room for Matt on the recliner. "Of course, _chéri_." It was tight. Matt kicked his legs over Francis' lap and then leant against his arm, which he wrapped around the boy's back for support. He held Matt gently, unobtrusively. He didn't want to overstep his boundaries, even with the boy sitting half in his lap. _You're so confusing_,_ Mathieu. Since last night you've been avoiding my touch_,_ yet now you want to sit with me_? Not that Francis was complaining; he would take whatever intimacy Matt gave him. _I just hope you're not doing this because you feel guilty_,_ or in apology for last night. If you feel uncomfortable with me then I would rather you not force it._ However, Matt's body was relaxed. His skin was even—not warm exactly, but—human.

"Who's playing?" he asked casually.

Instead of the television, Francis pointed to Arthur and Antonio. Apparently, it was an English-owned team versus a Spanish-owned one, hence the fervent debate (the other residents wisely stayed neutral).

"You'll have to explain it to me," Matt confessed, "the rules of soccer—sorry, _football_— kind of confuse me."

"Of course," Francis repeated in pleasant surprise.

He wasn't sure what had brought about Matt's sudden change in demeanour, but he suspected that Bjørn was behind it. The Norwegian was standing lazily beside the air-hockey table, listening as Mikkel regaled him with an animated story. He looked bored, but Francis supposed that it was an act. As if he could feel Francis' eyes watching him, Bjørn suddenly glanced at him. _Merci_, Francis mouthed, holding Matt. Bjørn inclined his head slightly and then looked back at lively Mikkel. Francis had been skeptical about asking for Bjørn's help, but finally he had acted on Antonio's suggestion. He had swallowed his pride and asked Bjørn to mentor Matt, which the Norwegian had been surprisingly receptive to.

"I know exactly how he's feeling," he had said cryptically, and then left.

Francis could do nothing but trust him, which—

"Why did the ref blow the whistle?" Matt asked. "Is that off-side, or a penalty? Why is number six curled-up in a ball on the ground? He didn't get hit that hard. What's happening now?"

—had been the right thing to do. Gratefully, Francis smiled.

* * *

**ALFRED**

I'm right! I'll prove it to you!" Arthur insisted. He gestured to the outside. "Let's have a game right now."

"It's pouring!" Antonio pointed. "Are you really so desperate to be right that you'll play football in the rain?"

"Never underestimate an Englishman's resolve about football or rain, Toni," Francis joked. He had looped his arms around Matt, who was sitting on his lap, and who laughed at the disgruntled look on Arthur's face. Al hadn't seen his brother smile so easily since before the bonding. Matt had thus far spent the majority of his time in captivity unhappy, and it relived Al to see him smiling now. "You'll talk yourself completely hoarse before changing his mind," Francis warned his foster-brother.

"You'll play, won't you, frog-eater?" asked Arthur.

Francis glanced at Matt, who nodded in encouragement. "Yes, I'll play. If only to prove you both wrong."

"If that's the case, then we're _definitely _playing, right Lud?" said Gilbert enthusiastically. Ludwig cracked his knuckles in anticipation:

"Yeah."

Antonio grudgingly agreed to play in the rain and two teams formed. Arthur self-proclaimed himself captain of the English team: Matt, Lars, Ludwig, Lovino, and Bjørn (who was goaded into playing by Mikkel), while Antonio's Spanish team consisted of: Al, Francis, Gilbert, Feliciano, and Mikkel. The teams were divided to keep bonded pairs from being together, which Al fussed about until he realized that he could directly go after Arthur if they were on opposing sides. They met Berwald and Tino on the ground-floor, but both politely declined ("football's not really my game," Tino said); and Roderick, who insisted that he and Eliza had work to do. It was windy and raining hard, but spirits were high as they reached the field. Al could feel the electricity in the atmosphere, which energized him. He felt adrenalin heat his veins as he stretched his limbs, facing-off against Matt. "Uh, where should I stand?" Matt asked, which prompted Arthur to move him to a less aggressive position. "Just defend the goal," he advised. The change left Al facing Arthur, which is exactly what the North American had wanted. He grinned suggestively and Arthur leant forward in reply, a competitive glint in his Lincoln-green eyes. "Ready?" Laura shouted, who had agreed to be referee. She threw the ball and the battle commenced.

Arthur sped past Al and seized control of the ball, manoeuvring it like a black-and-white blur. Al could barely keep pace with him. He ran off in pursuit, but Antonio reached Arthur first. They fought fiercely for control. It looked almost like wrestling in Al's opinion. He tried to help Antonio by blocking Arthur, but Lars' long leg stole the ball from underneath. He passed it down-field to Lovino, who sprinted to the Spanish goalpost and took a shot: Mikkel blocked it. "HA!" He made a rude gesture in victory and pitched the ball back into play. Al raced Arthur for it, but he slipped on the wet grass and they collided. "_Ouch_!" he hissed. In reflex, Al had grabbed his Magnus to break Arthur's fall. It was the wrong thing to do, competitively-speaking. Arthur leapt up quickly and ran off in pursuit of Francis. Francis passed the ball to Antonio, who passed it back. The control they showed was impressive. It was so well-timed that Ludwig and Lars failed to stop them. "Ah, yeah!" Al shouted as Antonio took a shot neither Matt or Bjørn could stop.

"That's a huge net!" Matt complained to Francis. Francis kissed his cheek amiably and jogged off.

The game continued, each team fighting fiercely for dominance. Mud-splattered and drenched, they hollered and tackled each other, ignoring the rules of engagement. Al lifted Arthur off his feet and swung him around in a wide circle, letting Feliciano sneak the ball away as the Englishman cursed loudly. Ludwig, however, followed Al's lead and scooped Feliciano up like a damsel. Gilbert tried to rescue the younger Italian, but Lovino blocked him.

"Al!" Gilbert shouted, passing the ball.

As Lars dove for it, Al created a circle of electricity, which hung like a halo above the ball. Lars doubled-back in surprise, narrowly escaping a shock, and Al took control.

"Hey! That's cheating!" Lovino shouted.

Al grinned as he raced down the field. He kicked sharply, aiming for the net—

—and the ball bounced off a slab of earth, raised as a shield.

Bjørn's eyes flashed competitively.

After that, a new game was born: Who can use his magick to score the most points? It became a combination melee-football game, wherein each of the five Magi tried to use his power to score goals while avoiding the effects of his Magnus' interference, who tried eagerly to stopper him. It got physical. And it was fun. It was like playing tug-of-war on a metaphysical level. Several of Magnus shouted advice to Magi that wasn't his, and Gilbert and Lars shouted advice to all of them indiscriminately, while the Magi tried to slip past their Magnus' defenses. Al found himself being chased by Arthur, whose face was flushed in determination (and frustration).

"Alfred!" he shouted, balling his hands into fists. Al could feel the fingers of his Magnus' defense, like a dam holding back a flood. But Arthur was struggling: the dam was about to burst.

_Not today_,_ Artie_, Al laughed. Today the sky fizzed with electricity, currents of power undulating like ocean waves. _This is literally my element_. "Hey, Artie!" he yelled in challenge. "Catch!"

A lightning-bolt struck down from the sky like a spear. It couldn't hurt Arthur, whose eyes, nonetheless, went wide in shock, but it did knock him off his feet. He landed inside his own goal, caught by the net.

Al said: "Does that count?"

"You bloody, reckless git!" Arthur shouted, untangling himself. "You could've hit someone! You could've—" He stopped when he realized that everyone was laughing at him. Hard. "Oh, bloody-hell," he grumbled in surrender.

"Call it a tie?" Matt proposed. "Antonio is a goal ahead of you, Arthur, but"—he pointed to the scorch-mark Al's lightning-bolt had left—"Al decimated the ball."

"Oops," said Al, smiling unapologetically. He proffered his hand to Arthur. "Hit the target though, didn't I?"

Arthur shook his head, unable to hide a smile, and took Al's hand.

* * *

The Doctor watched the rainy field through several high-calibre monitors in his laboratory, spying on his "birdies", as Gilbert Beilschmidt put it. _He would do so well with a Magi partner_, he thought of the red-eyed Magnus_. It's a shame that he hasn't been able to bond with anyone yet_. _He'll be such a waste if he fails again_._ Just like Arthur and Francis almost were_. _Hmm_. He tapped his masked chin as he enlarged the monitor's picture, capturing Al's bright-eyed face. The boy was only sixteen-years-old, but already he possessed an enormous amount of raw, unchallenged power. And Arthur had trained him well. _I knew he would_. He nodded in satisfaction. _That little English prick is a perfectionist. _Arthur had already cost the Doctor six Magi: six profits. In truth, the Englishman had caused more trouble than he, alone, was worth. _Alfred saved your life_,_ you know. I'd cast you into the shadows if it weren't for that Magi._

Ghosting over the monitor's control-panel, he replayed Al's lightning display in slow-motion. "Amazing," he whispered in awe. _He drew it forth so effortlessly_,_ like a Thunder God_. _If only your brother was just as reckless._

On an adjacent monitor, the Doctor zeroed-in on Matt's drenched figure. _You're not nearly as flashy_, _but you're just as powerful. Just as hungry. And_—he noted the way Francis guided Matt back inside, a gentle hand on the boy's back—_you're more easily controlled._ _More liable to take orders_; _less likely to rebel._

_Of course_,_ if I have you_,_ Matthew_,_ Alfred won't rebel either._

He could still see Al's enraged—_terrified_—face as he fought his kidnappers that night in North America. Not for himself, but for his twin-brother's sake. They had already injected Matt with a potent sleeping drug and secured the handcuffs to his wrists. Alfred was supposed to be just as easy; he wasn't supposed to have woken up in the middle of the abduction. Intelligence had told them that he was the less likely to wake, after all. That he was the one who slept deeply. But he _had_ woken up and, spotting the strangers stealing Matt, he exploded like a power-surge. The night that the Doctor's men had infiltrated the twins' home, Alfred had fought like a rabid dog. It had taken two men to restrain him while a third stuck a needle into him. If the men hadn't been wearing their magic-resistant armour, they would have most certainly been fried alive. _I saw it. You lit your whole bedroom on fire_,_ little Thunder God_.The Doctor smiled at the memory. _Your strength is so very enchanting._

_But I wonder_, he mused, glancing between the monitors, _if Matthew is still the one you love most_,_ Alfred. I wonder_—he saw Arthur's green eyes alight with laughter, smiling at Al—_what you would sacrifice to protect him_?

_And you_, _little Snowflake._ His eyes flickered to Matt. _What would you give to prevent that from happening_? _What would you do to protect your precious brother from himself_?

"Have you ever seen such powerful Magis?" he asked the shadow behind him. It stopped and recoiled, inches away from grabbing his neck. The Doctor didn't move.

The stranger's hands receded as he took a hesitant step backward. He held his fists up, aloft in defense, like a boxer. His hands were bony and chaffed raw; they were crosshatched with scar-tissue. In the absence of chains—the long, jangling metal coils that confined him—he didn't make a sound as he moved, like a ghost whose existence had been completely erased.

"They're worth a king's fortune," the Doctor continued, unperturbed by the man's dwarfing size; his crippling strength. He rapped Al's monitor with his knuckles. "I could demand any price for these two young Magi and people would pay it. People would pay generously for this kind of power. But I don't think I will." He sat thoughtfully; tapped his chin. "No," he decided. "I think I'll keep these two for myself. It's a shame I wasted so much time on Arthur and Francis." Sigh "Oh, well. I needed the Magis trained; I needed them bonded. Just like you. Only you failed," he said to the shadowed stranger. "Alfred and Matthew will be much more obedient than you. I'll make sure of it. And do you know how I'll achieve that? By testing on you, my little lab-rat.

"By the way—"

Abruptly, he turned around. The stranger retreated. His eyes were wild and sunken, pupils dilated in fear.

"—however did you break free this time, Ivan?"

* * *

**ARTHUR**

Hey, Artie?" said Al as he climbed into bed. He flopped down on his stomach, making the mattress surge, and folded his arms beneath a pillow. He was half-naked and freshly showered, smelling like peppermint. His body still retained heat from the steamy washroom, which wafted over Arthur as the boy's muscles relaxed. The Englishman watched a bead of water drip down the back of Al's neck as he spoke. "Matt told me something today. He said that Mikkel and Bjørn have already been sold twice to buyers. He wouldn't give me details about it, but he said they were sent back to Scandinavia. It got me thinking, you know?"

"God help us," Arthur teased.

Al frowned. "I'm being serious."

"I'm sorry." Tentatively, Arthur set his book aside and shifted to face Al. "What were you thinking, love?"

Al blushed at the easy term-of-endearment. "I was, uh... just wondering if it was normal to get sent back to your home country. Like, if we're sold, will we go to England or North America?"

"Possibly neither," Arthur answered. "It really just depends on which pair the buyer fancies most. It has little to do with nationality. Mikkel and Bjørn were chosen because the buyer was a _very _wealthy Norwegian tycoon. It's likely he just wanted a pair who could speak the native language. It was a coincidence they went back to Scandinavia. The second time that they were sold, it was to a Dutchman."

"Oh, I see." Alfred kicked his legs up-and-down ponderously. He looked like he wanted to ask something, but didn't know how to phrase it. Arthur waited patiently, trying to look as open-minded and approachable as possible. He wanted Al to feel comfortable asking him questions without prompting, especially now that they were bonded (and lovers). It had been Arthur's goal since Al's arrival to be as accommodating a partner as possible.

In an uncertain tone, Al finally said: "How likely is it then, that, uh... maybe..." He hugged the pillow tight. "I mean, if we're sold to someone, what are the chances that the same buyer will take Matt and Francis, too?"

Arthur's stomach twisted into a knot. He felt suddenly deflated, like a popped balloon, and realized that this was a question he did not want to answer.

Sheepishly, Al glanced at him. "Artie—?"

"Almost zero," he replied truthfully. "It's never happened before that a single buyer takes more than one pair. It's just not necessary and it's much too expensive. I suppose it might be possible with regular Magi, but..." He pursed his lips. "You and Matthew are rather exceptional, Alfred. I just don't think anyone would ever need you both," he said delicately. "And there are only a handful of people worldwide who could even afford it. You're incredibly valuable."

"So, someday Mattie and I will be separated?"

The sadness in Al's tone cut Arthur deeply. He wanted to comfort the boy, but he wouldn't lie to him. Softly, he said: "I'm so sorry, love."

It was quiet for half a minute. Then—

"Don't be," Al said, a beat too late. Breaking the tension with a determined smile, he declared: "Just because it's never happened before doesn't mean it _can't_ happen, right? I'm not leaving this place without Matt—and you and Frenchie, too. Mattie and I have been a two-for-one deal since the day we were born. Now we're four-for-one, okay? And don't even pretend like you wouldn't miss Francis, because I know you would. He's your best-friend, Artie, and friends should stick together."

Despite the odds, Arthur laughed. "You really are the most positive person I've ever met, Alfred."

"Well," Al shrugged, mock-humble, "I kind of have to be. My Magnus is a huge pessimist."

"Oh, sod-off—_mm_!"

Al silenced Arthur with a delicious kiss. And as cold-logic melted against the boy's sweet-tasting lips, Arthur was charged by Al's incandescent hopefulness. It tasted like youth. It fizzed like soda-pop and filled his stomach with bubbles that tickled his sentimentality. Past and present mingled in his mind, giving birth to future hopes. He forgot about the Birdcage and everyone in it. He forgot about everything except for Al. _I love you_, he thought. _I thought I was going to die_,_ but you saved me_,_ Alfred. You gave me this feeling_,_ this new life_. He sunk against Al's broad chest, pulling the boy closer. _You've given me back my strength. _As Al kissed him, Arthur felt the pull of something new. It was intangible, yet overwhelming. It was something he yearned for, something that had always been just out of reach.

"I love you," Al whispered against his lips. "I'll never let you go."

_Yes_, Arthur responded in kind. _Stay with me forever_,_ Alfred. As long as you're with me_,_ I feel like I can take on the whole world. As long as you're with me_,_ I'm not afraid. I don't care where we end up_.

Forget everything—everyone.

_As long as you're with me_,_ I'm free._


	12. First Interlude

**DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya**

**BIRDSONG**

* * *

**INTERLUDE**

**SIGUROUR**

**REYKJAVIK**

Sigurður Thomassen chased a tower of falling cubes with his index-finger, trying to beat the racing, smiling clock. The florescent cubes popped like cotton-candy in a puff of lemon-yellow stars when enough of them combined. It was, admittedly, a poor way to spend his lunch-hour, but less tedious than gossiping in a circle. He glanced at a gaggle of young boys as they passed, laughing at a private joke. Two of them were brothers. The younger one was in Sigurður's homeroom class and lived in the same dorm. Accidentally, he caught his classmate's gaze and immediately looked down. His pale eyes returned inconspicuously to his cell-phone's screen.

GAME OVER

He grimaced and started over.

He was halfway to reaching his previous high-score when he was suddenly attacked—_glomp_!

"Ice!" cried a careless, energetic voice.

Sigurður felt the boy's skinny arms snake around him from behind, pulling him into an affectionate embrace that smelled like cloves and cinnamon. His skin was warm, like a tropical beach. "Whatcha doing?" he purred, leaning down. He had no sense of personal-space. His silky, jet-black hair tickled Sigurður's pale cheeks. "Hey, Ice—? C'mon! Like, talk to me please! I'm bored!" he whined. In a selfish bid for attention, he covered Sigurður's cell-phone screen.

"Ah, fuck! Li!" Sigurður snapped irritably.

The boy—Li Xiao Chun, a transfer student from Hong Kong and Sigurður's exuberant roommate—grinned cheekily. He plopped himself down on the bench beside the Icelandic boy, keeping close by, and cocked his head. His long bangs veiled one almond-shaped brown eye and his lips pouted in concern. "Hey, is something, like, wrong?"

Sigurður focused more intently on his cell-phone's screen, avoiding Li's inquisitive gaze. "No, I'm fine."

The background image on his screen showed a fourteen-year-old boy holding a silver-haired toddler. Both of them had violet eyes and both were wearing forced smiles: a picture from the past. Inadvertently, he clenched his cell-phone. He heard the other boys laughing playfully in the distance. He heard his classmate yell in mock-threat at his older brother. Suddenly, Sigurður flinched. A tawny-coloured hand covered his snow-white one and squeezed gently.

"Ice—?"

"Where did you hear that? Only my brother calls me that," he said defensively.

"I know," said Li. Sigurður looked at him in surprise. Li smiled. "You talk in your sleep, you know."

Sigurður frowned. "And you listen?" he asked skeptically.

Li shrugged shamelessly. "I think it's cute."

Sigurður made a _tch_-sound with his tongue and shook off Li's hand. "You're so weird," he said flatly.

"That's a rude thing to say to your best-friend," Li said, miffed. He had been Sigurður's self-proclaimed best-friend since his first-year, though the Icelandic boy didn't know how or why. Not every boy befriended his roommate, after all, and there was nothing special about Sigurður that could have drawn the stylish Asian's attention. Sigurður had done nothing to encourage him; he was an isolated boy who kept to himself. In fact, he had actively tried to avoid Li for most of first-year, but Li was relentless. He was absolutely determined that he and Sigurður should be best-friends, and he had adopted the annoying habit of showing up when Sigurður was feeling his worst: sad, or lonely, or homesick. Just now, it was a combination of the three.

Li sighed dramatically and stood. He stretched his skinny arms overhead and let the breeze tease his hair. It was so full of sculpting-gel that Sigurður was surprised it moved at all.

"You miss him, don't you?" Uninvited, Li leant down, casting an elongated shadow over Sigurður. "The boy in the picture," he pointed, "that's Bjørn, isn't it?" Sigurður didn't reply. "It's okay to be sad, you know. He's your big-brother. Hey." He reached out, offering Sigurður his hand. "Let's get lunch together, okay? I'm, like, totally starving."

Sigurður looked up at Li's friendly, self-confident face. It was a nice-looking face. There was something oddly comforting about his deceptively lazy smile. The Icelandic boy swallowed the lump in his throat and feigned a sigh of boredom to mask it. Silently, he took Li's hand and let the Asian pull him up.

"So," he rewound the conversation as they walked. "I talk in my sleep, do I?"

"Yeah. It's usually when you're scared."

"Oh, great." Sigurður groaned. He tried to pull his hand away, but Li held it. "I don't... scream or cry, do I?"

"No, of course not." Li smiled.

But as Sigurður fished for loose change in his pockets, the Asian boy's expression subtly changed. Sigurður didn't see it, but Li's gaze was protective. And worried.

_You just make the whole bedroom shudder_— _like an earthquake._


	13. Chapter Twelve

**DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya**

**BIRDSONG**

* * *

**TWELVE**

**ALFRED**

It sure rains a lot here," Al noted as he handed Matt a wooden spoon.

Both of their Magnus had cancelled afternoon training because of bad weather. Outside, cold rain lashed against the window and the wind howled. Arthur could have relocated Al to the gymnasium for exercise, but it was quite crowded since everyone was indoors, and Arthur was paranoid about people watching them train. Al suggested that they go to the pool instead—"you can ogle my half-naked body, Artie!"—but Berwald had already requested that nobody bothered he and Tino. Al, who didn't know what Tino's magic specialty was (_something to do with water_, _I think_) asked Arthur: "Why do they have to be alone? Just what's going on in there?" Arthur, ignoring Al's innuendos, shrugged and said: "I have absolutely no idea," and continued to read. Al, who was bored, had then wandered upstairs to visit Matt and, finding his brother equally as bored, decided that they should bake cookies.

"I never thought it would rain so much in the mountains," Al sighed, opening the refrigerator. "Maybe it's a seasonal thing. And you're out of eggs, by the way."

"Then go to the kitchen and get some," said Matt, stirring dry ingredients together. Al tried not to patronize his brother's technique, but his tongue worked faster than his brain and he took a jab at Matt. "Just go," Matt swatted at him in annoyance.

"All the way downstairs?" Al whined. In exaggeration, he pouted.

Matt bit his lip, trying to maintain a stern expression, but he couldn't hold back a smile when Al leant close, nearly nose-to-nose. "Al, don't be such a baby," he laughed. Al batted his eyelashes helplessly, and Matt rolled his eyes. Relenting, he said: "Fine. Go next-door and ask if Yao and Kiku have any eggs we can borrow."

"Aye, aye!" Al saluted and waltzed out.

Yao and Kiku were the only people besides Francis and Matt who lived on the ninth floor, which meant that the two apartments were fairly spread apart. _Lucky_, Al envied the layout. He hated that his apartment shared a wall with Antonio and Lovino's. It's not that they were bad neighbours exactly, but they were both kind of—_ahem_—loud. "Passionate" is the word Francis had used when Al had been complaining one day. "That's fine," Al had replied, "but how hard is it to bite a pillow, huh?" Of course, it didn't help that—as young and _passionate_ as he, himself, was—whenever Al got excited the electricity went haywire and scared Lovino (who was afraid of the dark). The Italian's timing was impeccable: too consecutive to be a coincidence, Al thought. Lovino started banging on the wall just as Al reached climax. Every. Single. Time. Al started to call it "revenge".

Al reached Yao and Kiku's apartment and lightly rapped his knuckles on the door. He waited a few seconds and then tried again. Nothing. He sighed in resignation, readying to make the arduous journey down to the fifth floor kitchen, when he heard the faint sound of voices from within. "Hey, Yao?" Al called. Inside, someone cried-out.

Disregarding politeness, Al pushed the door open and rushed inside, thinking that he would find a scene of distress. He had barely made it past the entrance, however, when he stopped abruptly.

Kiku was lying half-naked on his back on the settee with his legs wrapped around a man's waist. It was not Yao, as Al would have guessed, but the handsome Greek, Heracles. His tawny head was bowed against the Japanese's slender neck, and the muscles in his back rippled as he slipped a hand through Kiku's ink-black hair; his other hand was concealed inside Kiku's robe. The Japanese's face was flushed. His eyes were squeezed shut, but his lips were parted, emitting a soft, strangled cry of pleasure—not distress. Heracles was whispering in Greek, but when Kiku opened his eyes in reply, he spotted Al.

"Ah—A-Al!" he choked, going white in shock. His fingers clenched Heracles' shoulders, urging him to stop.

"I-I-I— I-m sorry!" Al gasped in apology. "I didn't—I thought—I'm going now!"

He retreated fast, pulling the door closed behind him, and then power-walked back to Matt's apartment. By the time he arrived, his face was beet-red in embarrassment.

"What happened to you?" Matt asked. "Didn't Yao and Kiku have any eggs—_gah_!"

Al grabbed the wooden spoon from Matt and set it aside. "No, no eggs. What I did see was Kiku and Heracles going at it on the living-room couch."

Matt blinked, taken off-guard. "_Eh_? Really? Are you sure that's what it was?" he asked in recovery.

Al nodded. "Oh, yeah. Definitely. It was, like, pretty hot."

Matt pursed his lips, trying not to grin. "Do you think Yao knows?"

"Knows what?" asked Francis, walking in with Gilbert. The German smiled when he spotted the twins standing close together in secret.

"Uh, well, just that—"

"Heracles is fucking Kiku," said Al indelicately. He grinned, expecting the gossip to shock the two Magnus—Kiku had certainly looked shocked—but they merely exchanged a glance, and Francis said:

"Oh, that. Yes, Yao knows. Actually," he glanced at Gilbert for confirmation, "I think most of the Birdcage knows. Despite his _ninja_-_skills_," he quoted Al, "Kiku is pretty clumsy when it comes to romance. He's not nearly as subtle as he tries to be. It's kind of adorable. Heracles, of course, doesn't care who knows."

"And neither does Yao?" Al guessed. "I thought he and Kiku were like, you know—?"

"Yao and Kiku, a couple?" Gilbert laughed.

"No, no," Francis shook his head to dispel the misconception. "They're bonded, but not all bonded pairs are couples." Inadvertently, he glanced at Matt, who blushed and looked elsewhere. Al and Gilbert politely pretended not to notice. Francis continued: "Yao and Kiku aren't romantically involved. They love each other, of course, but it's more like brothers who have been stuck together. They actually bicker a lot and don't spend much free time together."

"Really?" Al was surprised. "I always see them together."

"They train a lot," Gilbert shrugged.

The topic of conversation shifted from Kiku's love life to other gossip, and Al soon found himself re-enacting his previous mission to find eggs. Gilbert smirked, and said: "There are a lot of couples from here to the fifth floor, Al. Bet you can't find another quickie to interrupt," but Al ignored him. He spent the rest of the afternoon with Matt, Francis, and Gilbert, who never seemed to have anywhere to be, before he headed back to the seventh floor. Arthur looked as if he hadn't moved since Al left. He was still curled up in the armchair with a book in his lap, a cold cuppa tea at his side. He was tapping a pen against his lips, eyes scouring the page; the notebook beside him was covered in his small, neat handwriting.

"You're such a nerd," Al said in greeting.

Arthur grunted in acknowledgement, but didn't otherwise respond. He wrote a note.

Al stretched and fell languidly onto the bed. "Bet you were a teacher's pet in high-school, weren't you, Artie?"

"No. I went to private-school," he replied absently.

"Of course you did." Al rolled his eyes. He flipped onto his back and stared at the ceiling for a moment. Then he said: "I caught Kiku and Heracles having sex today."

"Hmm, did you?" Arthur asked, disinterested. "In the conservatory or the archive?"

"Kiku's apartment."

"Ah. That's a bit conventional for them."

Having witnessed Kiku's flushed face—which had been kind of, maybe, totally arousing—Al made a mental note never to enter the conservatory or the archive without first knocking _very _loudly. In comparison, he thought of Arthur's flushed face. He loved those pink-tinged cheeks and every single pale freckle. Arthur hated his freckles, but as Al worked his way down the Englishman's trembling body, kissing every (im)perfection, the boy would whisper: "I love them. I love you," and Arthur would cease all his complaints. Unexpectedly, the happy memory made Al consider something sad.

"Hey, Artie?" he asked conversationally. "Does Yao have anyone?"

"Why? Sick of me already? Looking to trade me in, are you?"

"Yeah, definitely." Al grinned at his Magnus. "I bet he wouldn't make me train half as hard as you do."

Arthur snorted. "Sorry, love, but Yao would make you train twice as hard. Anyway," he closed his book, "why the sudden interest in Yao?"

Al shrugged. "No reason. It's just, uh..." He paused, embarrassed by the sudden depth of the topic. He tried to disregard it, but Arthur was intrigued by the boy's shyness and prodded. "Yao's been here longer than anyone else, right? Since he was a child?" he said hesitantly. "It's just kind of sad to think that, maybe, he's never been in love."

To Al's surprise—and embarrassment—Arthur chuckled. "You're so sentimental, Alfred," he said, joining Al on the bed. He brushed his knuckles over the boy's forehead. "I never would have guessed."

Al frowned. "Oh, fuck-off," he said, rolling over onto Arthur's lap. He rested his head there, letting Arthur toy with his hair, fingers combing it back. It felt good.

"Yao did have someone. I think."

"_Did_?" Al asked in surprise. "He or she died?"

Arthur's hand rested atop Al's head. "We don't really know what happened to him. One day he was just gone. He was like Francis and I, he was a Magnus who couldn't bond with a Magi so the Doctor took him. He might be dead; he might not be. We don't know and the Doctor won't tell."

"How long ago did he disappear?"

"Twenty-three months," Arthur answered. "His name was Ivan," he added after a pause. "None of us realized how close he and Yao were until after he was already gone. We were all surprised by Ivan's sudden disappearance, of course, but Yao took it the hardest. He didn't really show it. The newer recruits didn't even notice he was hurting, but those of us who had known him for a few years noticed a distinct change. Yao became really quiet and he spent all of his free time alone. It was several months before he was back to normal-ish. It's hard to describe," Arthur said. "Yao never said anything about Ivan, but his demeanour changed after his disappearance. We kind of suspected that there had been something going on between them.

"Ivan was quite a bit younger than Yao, I think. It's hard to tell with Yao; he looks so young. I used to think it was foolish. I wondered how he could have fallen for someone so much younger..." Arthur blushed and coyly lowered his eyes. "I don't wonder that anymore."

Al smiled. "How long had Ivan been without a Magi?" he asked.

"Ivan was brought here two years before I was, so it had been seven years when he was taken. I guess that's the limit of the Doctor's patience: seven years. Especially since Francis and I... well, we both came dangerously close to sharing Ivan's fate. It's because of you and Matthew that we were spared."

"I'm glad you were," Al said, reaching behind him. He took Arthur's hands, encouraging the Magnus to wrap his arms around him, which Arthur did. "Cause I'm not letting you go, Artie. Don't worry," he teased, looking up, "I'll protect you from the big, bad Doctor."

"Hmm? My hero," Arthur smirked sarcastically. He met Al's upside-down lips and kissed him. And when he did, it tasted like chocolate cookies.

* * *

**ARTHUR**

It was late. Arthur was reading in bed with Al asleep beside him. It was two o'clock in the morning. The boy's paper-soft snores were peaceful and his body-heat warmed the bed. The nights were cold now that summer had faded into autumn, but Arthur was never uncomfortable sleeping with Al. He didn't have to layer blankets on top of himself, like Francis did. _I guess that's the downside of having a Magi who's specialty is ice_. Francis had confessed to Arthur that Matt suffered from nightmares. _It's a good thing that they're bonded_, Arthur thought, _otherwise Francis would be a French popsicle_. _At least when Alfred has nightmares it gets warmer_,_ not colder._ He looked down at Al, who seemed to be dreaming: the boy's eyelids fluttered. Tenderly, Arthur touched his cheek and Al smiled.

"_I love you so much_," Arthur whispered in secret.

He left the bed to make tea. He wasn't the least bit tired and he wanted to finish reading the book that he had borrowed from the archive. He didn't bother turning the overhead lights on because the moonlight was bright enough to see by. He leant against the counter in a ribbon of silver moonlight as the kettle steamed. He let his mind wander as he waited for it to boil, thinking of Al and Al's concern for Yao's happiness. _He's nosy_, _but—most of the time—it's only because he genuinely cares about people_. It reminded him of Al's earlier query about being sold: _What are the chances that the same buyer will take Matt and Francis_,_ too_? _Almost zero_, Arthur had replied, which was the truth. But just for a moment Arthur hoped that he was wrong. Sure, it would mean being stuck with Francis forever, but if it meant Al would be happy, Arthur thought it a small price to pay. _Don't even pretend like you wouldn't miss Francis... he's your best friend_, Al had scolded; Arthur smiled now. _Yes_, he admitted. He pictured the foursome in his mind. The foursome that he, Arthur Kirkland, now belonged to. _Friends should stick together._

_At least_, he thought, collecting a teacup, _I'll always have Alfred._

The kettle whistled just as the Doctor's men burst in through the door. There were six of them wearing black, magic-resistant armour and holding high-calibre weapons that glowed blue. They slipped inside like a SWAT team, fanning out in a triangular formation. Arthur had seen it before; it was a precaution only. They had not expected him to be awake. Taken off-guard, Arthur dropped the teacup and it shattered. It alerted the men to his presence. They aimed their weapons at him, but stopped when they recognized the Magnus and resumed their hunt. They advanced on the bedroom, weapons ready.

"Oi—stop it!" said Arthur in recovery. "Stop! What are you doing?" He rushed to the bedroom door, fighting the guards, trying to shoulder them aside, which failed. "Stop it now!"

"Artie, wha—_aah_!"

One of the guards fired his weapon and a blast of pale-blue light hit Al's chest like a high-powered taser. The boy's body fell back on the bed and jerked involuntarily; his back arched and his mouth fell open in a silent scream of pain. Then he stilled, paralysed, and fell unconscious. The instant he did, two of the guards were on top of him. One unnecessarily pinned Al to the bed, shoving a knee into the boy's back, as if he thought Al would suddenly jump up, while the other fastened iron handcuffs to his wrists.

"_What the fuck are you doing_? _Stop it_! _Get the fuck off him_!" Arthur shouted. He beat his fists on the guards, bruising his hands on their armour. "_Who the fuck gave you permission to_—"

Finally, one of the guards got annoyed and shoved the Englishman effortlessly back, like a pest. Arthur's legs hit the coffee-table and he fell clumsily back, but he leapt back up ready for a fight. "Alfred!" he yelled as the guards lifted Al's body. Arthur tried to draw forth as much energy as possible and channel it toward Al to wake him up, but he stopped when the boy suddenly gasped in pain. He squeezed his eyes shut, moaning weakly. _The handcuffs_! Arthur realized. He stopped immediately. _It doesn't matter how much energy I channel to him because he can't release it_._ The pressure is only building inside of him_,_ hurting him. Oh_, _God—Alfred_!

In a last attempt to rescue Al, Arthur grabbed a lamp and broke it over a guard's head. The man buckled and dropped Al's legs, but before Arthur could act, a big-boned guard grabbed him roughly from behind. The furious Magnus trashed wildly, yelling for help—_someone please hear me_!—but the guard restrained him while another took a needle and stuck it into Arthur's neck. He was injected with a drug, which felt hot. Immediately, the Englishman felt his body shutting down, growing weak. _A tranquilizer._

"Go to sleep," said the guard. He dropped Arthur, who landed hard on the floor.

"No... please don't..." he gasped. He crawled to his knees; stumbled; fell. His blinked, but his vision had gone fuzzy. He couldn't see faces, only shapes as the guards carried Al out the door. "No..." Arthur begged. The strength left his muscles and he fell to his stomach. The world spun violently; it fell sideways. Desperately, he reached out.

"Please... don't take my Alfred..."

* * *

**MATTHEW**

Mathieu! Mathieu, _chéri_, wake up!"

Matt woke abruptly, pulled from a pleasant dream that he instantly forgot. Francis was shaking him roughly.

"Get up—hurry!" he urged, dragging the boy out of bed.

Matt stumbled, pulling his t-shirt down to meet his boxer-shorts. Groggily, he let Francis lead him into the lounge. "Mm? What's"—_yawn_—"wrong? It's like"—_yawn_—"two in the morning. Francis—?"

"Quiet, _chéri_." Francis' sapphire-blue eyes seemed to glow in the bright moonlight. He looked panicked, like he had on the night of the bonding. It worried Matt. "I felt something... something that's not right," he whispered, as if he was afraid the walls would hear. He spoke quickly as he dragged Matt back-and-forth across the room in his panic, searching for—_What_? Matt thought. _What's going on_? Francis said: "Ever since we were bonded I can feel when the guards use their weapons. I don't know how; it's like a tiny pinch. The blasts are meant to neutralize magic-users, to tranquilize us. It must have something to do with the formula of the chemical itself, it freezes a magic-user's nerves." He stopped at the window and glanced out, shielding Matt from view. "I have a bad feeling about tonight, a very bad feeling, Mathieu."

Matt started to speak, to question and reassure Francis, but the Frenchman suddenly pressed a hand to the boy's lips. That's when Matt heard it: metal footsteps. They sounded loud in the silence of the ninth floor.

"_Francis_?" he said against Francis' hand.

Without warning, Francis shoved Matt into the washroom. "Barricade the door," he ordered. Matt tried to protest, but Francis snapped: "Just do it! And don't open it no matter what. Trust me, Mathieu. _Please_." He smiled at Matt and then closed the door.

Seconds later, Matt heard a commotion as several of the Doctor's guards forced their way into the apartment. Confused and feeling scared, Matt did as he was told. As ice covered the door, reinforcing it, he worried about Francis, whose angry voice he could hear through the thin walls. _What's going on_?_ What will they do to him_? It was a horrible feeling, the waiting. A bead of sweat froze on his temple. His heart was pounding and he kept his frosted hands braced against the door. The ice began to creep over the walls, but Matt hesitated. The voices grew louder.

"I told you, he's not here!" Francis snapped. Matt had never heard him sound so aggressive. His airy, sinuous voice had become a defensive growl.

"Stand aside," said a short-tempered guard. He wasn't buying Francis' lie. "Remove yourself now, Magnus, or"—_click_—"we'll remove you. You're not needed now that your Magi's powers have been awakened by the bonding. Doctor's orders. Now that you've trained the boy, you're expendable, so I wouldn't push my luck if I were you."

Matt's blood went cold. _Francis_!

"I'll ask you once more," said the guard shortly. "Stand aside."

Matt hoped that Francis would comply to save himself, but bravely the Frenchman spat: "_Go fuck yourself_!"

The guard struck him and Francis cried-out in pain. It cut Matt deeply; his hands clenched. "No, no, no!" he panicked as a struggle ensued.

Someone said: "Just tranquilize him, it's easier."

"Nah, this is more fun. I've been wanting to take a swing at these arrogant bastards for a long time."

A surge of ice-cold anger washed over Matt as he listened to them beating his Magnus. Nothing but Francis' order—his trusting smile—kept Matt from breaking through the door. He felt compelled to defend Francis, but logic held him back. _If I do_,_ he won't thank me. He'll be furious at me for disobeying._ _He shoved me in here to protect me from them. _He cringed when Francis' body hit the floor. _Please get up_,_ Francis_!_ Please be okay_! The door shook as the guards open-fired at it. Matt tried to hold the barricade, but he could feel Francis' consciousness slipping away, which worried him, angered him, and left his magic unstable. He could feel himself shaking as the wall began to spider-web under the gunfire and physical force. Matt tried to think. He tried to think of a way out of this, but he was scared. His heart was pounding, preoccupied with Francis' well-being. His magic seized and, without Francis able to moderate it, it exploded in a sudden gale. The barricade shattered, taking down the whole wall, which had been weakened by ice and gunfire. Several guards were thrown back before a pale-blue light hit Matt in the chest, sending a searing shock of pain throughout his body, shutting down every nerve as Francis had described. He fell, paralyzed, right into a guard's outstretched arms. Matt tried to fight the paralysis, but his eyesight was going dark; his joints were numb; his head felt fuzzy. Vaguely, he felt them handcuff his wrists; vaguely, he heard a guard's voice as he issued orders; vaguely, as he was lifted and carried out of the apartment, he saw Francis' body lying on the floor. There were bruises on the Frenchman's face and blood on his lips: his lovely, velvety lips—

"_No_,_ please_..." Matt whispered. And blacked-out.

* * *

**ARTHUR**

Arthur—? Can you hear me? Hey, don't touch him, _chiquito_."

"He looks like shit. Is he injured?"

"No, I don't think so. He's just out-cold. He's been drugged, see?"

"Fuck! It's that goddamned Doctor, that bastard!"

"Hush, Lovi. Not so loud, or else—Oh! Arthur, you're awake. Are you okay?"

Arthur squeezed his eyes before opening them, blinded by a bright light. He blinked groggily, looking up into Antonio's green-eyed face. "Wha—" _cough couch_ "—what happened?" he wheezed. His throat felt dry, like sandpaper. He tried to rise, but his muscles lacked strength; his body was weak and wobbled. Lovino caught his shoulders from behind and held him upright. "_Ow_—!" His head was pounding.

"We heard you screaming," said Antonio. "You've been out for half-an-hour."

"We found you on the floor," Lovino said. "Alone. Where's Al?"

_Alfred_! Arthur's eyes flew open in panic. "They took him!" he gasped. "The guards came in and they—they—_they fucking took him_! They attacked him and—_Ah_! _Fuck_!" Arthur's body ached. Roughly, he shouldered off Lovino's hands and tried to stand. It failed. He clenched the countertop and, trembling, his legs feeling like jelly, made it to the kitchenette before he vomited in the sink. Then he fell to his knees.

"God, Arthur, slow down," Antonio warned. "You're going to hurt yourself."

The Spaniard grabbed a dry tea-towel and held it out, but when Arthur ignored it he knelt down and took the liberty of wiping the sweat and drool off the Englishman's pale face. Antonio's touch was comforting, like a brother's, but Arthur barely registered it. Finally, Antonio sighed. "Lovi," he said to the Italian, who was standing awkwardly by, "get the door,_ chiquito_. I'm taking Arthur to the infirmary—"

"No—" _cough cough_ —"not the infirmary," Arthur wheezed. He clutched Antonio's shirt-front tightly. "Take me to Francis."

* * *

Matthew's gone, isn't he?" Arthur asked in greeting. Even if the ninth floor apartment hadn't been destroyed, he could have guessed at Matt's absence by the forlorn look on Francis' face. The Frenchman was sitting quietly on the settee with his head in his hands. He looked desolate. His ash-blonde curls hung messily, framing a wide-eyed, bruised face with a split lip. Kiku was sitting awkwardly beside him, hands folded in his lap, like he didn't know whether he should lend comfort or keep quiet. Yao was standing by the window and staring out vacantly. When nobody acknowledged Arthur's question, Kiku cleared his throat and said:

"Yes, Matthew's gone."

"Fuck."

"Francis?" said Antonio. He deposited Arthur on the settee beside Francis, forcing Kiku to get up (which the Japanese man didn't seem to mind). The Spaniard took a seat on the coffee-table across from his foster-brother. "Are you okay?" he asked in concern. Lovino stood close behind Antonio, clinging to his shirtsleeve. Antonio reached back and took the Magi's hand, as if he was afraid that Lovino would be taken next.

"He's gone," Francis repeated needlessly, quietly. "My Mathieu is gone. They took him from me. They took him away. And Alfred—?" He glanced sideways. Arthur nodded in confirmation. "Oh, God."

"It doesn't make any sense." Arthur shook his head. He was aware of his audience, but he didn't care. He was thinking out-loud. He had to keep thinking, otherwise he would breakdown. "Alfred and Matthew are gifted Magi. They're both incredibly valuable assets, but not alone. They can't be sold without us. We're partners. They both have a Magnus. They're both bonded Magis," he said, as if he were saying: _They're both married men_. "So, why would the Doctor take them without warning? Why would he take them at all? They're both strong; both in perfect health. There is absolutely nothing wrong with them. And he can't use them without Francis and I, can he?"

He glanced from face-to-face, seeking a reply. Antonio shrugged helplessly, and said: "I don't know."

"Then _why_?" Francis begged. Kiku flinched. "Why my Mathieu?" Miserably, he covered his face.

"Why did he take the twins?" said Yao quietly; sharply. His quiet voice surprised Arthur. The Chinaman was stiff, but as he turned slowly to face them his dark eyes flashed dangerously. In that instant he _looked _dangerous. But his voice was sad:

"Why did he take Ivan?"


	14. Second Interlude

**DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya**

**BIRDSONG**

* * *

**INTERLUDE**

**YAO**

**TWENTY-THREE MONTHS AGO**

Yao felt cold. Sleepily, he arched his shoulders and migrated toward the centre of the bed. It was late. He had fallen asleep hours ago, nestled in a strong, protective embrace. His long, ink-black hair was splayed over the bed-sheets like long, sleek tendrils. He could feel it on his shoulders, left bare by the blankets. He shifted, moving further across the firm mattress. Absently, he wondered what time it was. Kiku knew where Yao was; he wouldn't worry. Yao liked Kiku. The Japanese boy didn't pry into his business and didn't ask any unnecessary questions. He was a good Magi, a good student, and a good friend when it counted. He hoped that someday Ivan would find a Magi like Kiku. He hoped the same for Gilbert, Ivan's roommate, who was conveniently staying in his brother's apartment tonight.

"_Mm_, _Ivan_?" Yao whispered, opening his eyes. His vision was sleep-heavy, but his reaching hand came back empty. "Ivan?" he repeated, lifting his head. He had moved across the entire bed, but the Russian wasn't there.

Yao felt drowsy, but he wrapped himself in the bed-sheet and stood. He took a step, then collapsed. "_Ah_!"

_What's going on_? He blinked. _Why can't I_—

Leaning against the bed-frame, he felt a prick on his neck. _What is this_? _Am I bleeding_?_ No. This isn't blood_, he realized, licking his fingertip, _it's a sleeping-drug._

Panic seized him. "Ivan!" he called louder. "Ivan, where are you?"

Yao forced himself to his feet and stumbled into the lounge, grabbing the furniture for support, but Ivan was not there. The apartment was quiet. The clock revealed that it was nearly half-past four o'clock in the morning, which frightened Yao.

_How long have I been unconscious for_? _Why didn't they take me too_?_ Why did they take Ivan_? _How long has he been gone for_?

_When will he be back_?

* * *

_Ivan's gone_—?"

"No. You must be mistaken, Gil. What do you mean he's _gone_?"

"I'm not mistaken, it's true. It's been a week, guys, and nobody's seen him. He's gone."

"You don't think the Doctor—?"

"Of course I do! Who else would be behind it?"

"Well, Ivan _did _just lose another Magi. He wouldn't be the first person to try—"

"Suicide? No, Ivan isn't like that."

"Yeah, but it was his eighth Magi, Gil. That's got to get to you—"

"No! You guys don't understand. I lived with Ivan. He might have seemed a little, uh... intimidating at times, but he genuinely cared about..." Pause. "Look, he wouldn't kill himself, okay? The Doctor took him, I'm sure of it."

"But why? He was a Magnus, he was valuable."

"Was he, though? What good is an un-bonded Magnus?"

"Hey! Don't say things like that... especially not in front of Arthur and Francis."

"Mikkel, we're standing right here, we can hear you."

"Whatever. Look, if the Doctor has taken him away then it must be for a reason. And not a good one. It's sad, but let's face the facts: none of us are safe here. Ivan's as good as—"

Yao quickly left the common-room, unseen. He couldn't listen to them debate Ivan's fate, it was too painful. Absently, he touched the faint puncture wound on his neck, left by the Doctor's needle. It was nearly healed, but it still throbbed when his fingers touched it. He cringed—clutched his chest, which ached. He called-down the elevator, but when it stopped, revealing Eduard and Raivis, he changed direction and entered the stairwell. He paused in the dark and gasped. Then he continued. By the time he reached his ninth floor apartment, he was biting back sobs.

* * *

Yao-_san_—?" Kiku's voice was soft. He stepped cautiously into the pitch-black bedroom, leaving the bedroom's door open. A ribbon of light illuminated Yao, who was lying on his side on the bed, facing the wall. He was wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt that did not belong to him; it hung in folds from his slight-boned figure. His hair was hanging in long, messy tendrils over the mattress; head bowed; body silently shaking. "Yao-_san_," Kiku repeated. The Chinaman felt his Magi's weight sit down. Gently, Kiku's hand touched Yao's shoulder.

"_He's not coming back_, _is he_?" Yao's voice was barely a whisper.

"I don't think so. I'm sorry."

Yao squeezed his eyes shut and let Kiku draw him into a fraternal embrace. Feeling helpless, he wrapped his arms around Kiku's skinny waist and clutched the folds of his pale yukata. Then—exhausted and depressed; afraid for Ivan's sake—he cried. He gasped sharply and buried his head against Kiku's stomach, shoulders trembling, and let his tears fall freely. Kiku gently stroked his hair. Yao squeezed him, trying desperately to draw comfort from his Magi, but Kiku's quiet presence couldn't heal heartache. It had been a week since Ivan's sudden disappearance, but Yao's pain was deeper now than it had been that first night alone.

"_Tell me the truth_," he whispered sadly. "_Do you think he's... dead_?"

Kiku was silent for a long time. Too long. Then he said: "I don't know, Yao-_san_. I'm sorry."

Yao closed his eyes.

_Me_,_ too._


	15. Chapter Thirteen

**DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya**

**BIRDSONG**

* * *

**THIRTEEN**

**MATTHEW**

Matt's eyelashes quivered as he opened them, waking from a deep, drug-induced sleep. A bright light blinded him. He flinched. His head felt heavy, fuzzy with static voices; his body felt numb. _What am I staring at_? It took him a minute to realize that he was lying naked on a metallic tabletop. His wrists were suspended in a brace, both of his hands hanging limply. He tried to move his fingers, but failed. A third brace locked his ankles to the tabletop, keeping his legs spread. _I should be scared_, he thought absently, but he wasn't conscious enough to feel fear. He tried to lift his head, but it flopped to the side. He moaned softly.

"_Hey_, _uh..._ _he's waking up. Matthew's waking up_."

"_What_? _No_, _he can't be_—_Oh_, shit_. He shouldn't be waking yet. It's too soon. Did you give him a full dose_?"

"_Of course I did. It worked on Alfred. Why isn't it working properly on Matthew_? _Does it have something to do with his magic_?"

"_Maybe_, _but it's more likely a natural immunity. He awoke early on the ship when they brought him here, too. Here_, _hold this for a minute_."

Matt felt a gloved hand touch his face. He lifted his eyes and came face-to-face with a man in a surgical mask. His partner, dressed in a starch-white laboratory coat, stood curiously behind him. Matt cringed when the gloved man squeezed his cheeks, drawing forth a weak whimper.

"_Are you sure we should be giving him a second dose without the Doctor's authorization_?"

"_The alternative is letting him wake up. And then what_? _Didn't you see what he did to the guards who were sent to sedate him_? _If you don't want a broken neck_, _I suggest you hand me that syringe right now. Hurry up_, _he's starting to struggle. Thank-you. Here you go_, _Matthew. Go back to sleep_, _little bird_."

"N-no—" Matt could feel himself falling into unconsciousness as the drug was injected into his neck, directly into his bloodstream. At first it was searing hot, then it faded. He tried to fight it, but the pull was too strong. His head fell sideways, eyes closing. It numbed his brain, his thoughts.

"_You're sure that a double dose isn't going to affect him negatively_?"

"_No_, _I'm not sure. But if something does go wrong_, _we deny everything— right_?"

"_Right. Oh_, _good_, _he's asleep_."

* * *

**LATER**

_Mathieu_, _wake up._

The voice was not deep or defined. It was elegant; it sounded like a song. It spoke quietly in French. _Mathieu_, _darling_,it said smoothly, transforming his name into a fragment of poetry. _You must wake up now. You're in danger_. _You must open your eyes. You must escape._ _Mathieu_,the voice caressed him, reaching out to embrace him, protect him. It was soft and safe. It enveloped him. Then it changed. It became urgent. _Mathieu_! It yelled: _Mathieu_,_ wake up_! _Open your eyes_, _my darling_!_ Please_! _You must escape_!_ Please_,_ wake up_!

_I_... _can't_. He fought the tumult of his thoughts. It was deafening; so loud, he felt numb. His head pounded.

_Mathieu_,_ please_! _Don't let them do this_!

_Do what_? _I don't understand._ He tried hard to hurt. _Who is _them?_ Who are _you? _Who am _I?

_Mathieu_, _my darling... please_.

_No_,_ don't go_! He was waking and the voice was fading. He tried to search for its source, but his memory was fragmented. _No_,_ wait_! he called. He didn't recognize the voice, but there was something soothing about it. Something safe. And he didn't want to be left alone. _Please_,_ don't go_! _Don't leave me_!

_You must escape_,_ Mathieu... You must wake up..._

* * *

The boy awoke. A white, gloved hand removed a syringe from his forearm. Mechanically, the boy pushed himself into a sitting position, perched on a stainless-steel tabletop. A wall-mirror reflected the laboratory. He saw his reflection, but the face that stared back stirred no feelings of recognition in him. It was pale and violet-eyed. It was not smiling.

"Matthew, look here."

_Am I Mathew_? he wondered. He looked at the masked man standing beside him: the Doctor. He wasn't sure where that description had surfaced from, but it fit. The Doctor took a stylus and drew several complex symbols on the boy's skin, black words in a foreign language. As the Doctor inspected his body, the boy glanced sideways. There was an identical table five feet away with a nearly identical boy undergoing an identical inspection. It was the boy's blue eyes that drew his—Matthew's—attention. _I feel like I should know him_. The blue-eyed boy looked at him and frowned. _He feels so familiar_. As the blue-eyed boy reached out toward him, he—Matthew—reciprocated in reflex. He leant sideways, wanting to touch the other boy, who crackled with yellow electricity. His own body was covered in ice-crystals. Their fingers touched for the briefest of seconds and Matthew felt an undeniable connection with him before the Doctor grabbed his wrist and abruptly pulled them apart.

"Don't!" he snapped. Sternly, he said: "Matthew, look here. Focus on me—_focus on my voice_." As he spoke in a foreign tongue, the symbols on Matthew's skin began to heat and glow.

"Wha—" the blue-eyed boy started, but he was immediately silenced.

The Doctor's incantation was long and complicated. Then, suddenly, Matthew's body involuntarily jolted and his head fell back. He stared at the low ceiling; his pupils shrank in the bright light. It blinded him. His lips formed a perfect O, a silent cry. It stole the breath from his lungs. Then, as the incantation finished, he fell against the tabletop. The blue-eyed boy spoke, but this time Matthew didn't respond to him. He opened his eyes and focused on the Doctor instead, who stood in a halo of residual energy. It was an invisible force, but Matthew could feel it. It emitted the same pulse as the symbols which had dissolved on his skin, each one disappearing as the Doctor spoke it's name aloud. He stared tensely at Matthew from behind his mask, and said:

"Matthew, stand up."

The Doctor's voice was the only thing that penetrated the boy's foggy brain. He didn't know anything else. He didn't know who he was, or where he was. He didn't even know _what _he was. But it didn't matter. Like a marionette, he felt the strings of the Doctor's will urging him into action. He felt ice-cold magic coursing powerfully through him, circulating throughout his entire body, and he knew at once whom that power belonged to, whom he now belonged to.

Obediently—compulsively—Matthew stood up.

* * *

**ARTHUR**

Arthur awoke in a crooked, curled-up position. His neck cracked. He was lying on Alfred's side of the bed, hugging a large, hardcover book, which he had been drooling on. Moaning, he wiped his eyes and wondered when he had fallen asleep. He glanced at the clock, seven in the morning. It had officially been twenty-nine hours since Al had been taken by the Doctor's men; twenty-nine hours since Arthur had started searching for a way to rescue him; twenty-nine of the longest hours of Arthur's miserable life. He hadn't eaten, or showered, or slept—He yawned. Scratch that last one. He had been so tired, he couldn't even remember falling asleep.

"That's not your t-shirt."

Arthur flinched in surprise. He twisted, trapped in a coil of bed-sheets, and saw Francis staring down at him. The Frenchman looked exhausted. There were dark circles around his eyes, which looked lifeless. The blue of Francis' lively eyes had dulled; they had lost their sparkle. Arthur could relate. Wisely, he avoided the dresser mirror, afraid of his own reflection. Instead, he buried his nose sulkily in the neck of Al's t-shirt. "What do you want?" he said.

"Mathieu," Francis replied. He sounded forlorn. "I want my Mathieu back. Have you read anything useful?" He pointed to the book.

"No. Have you been able to find the Doctor?"

"No."

"He's in his laboratory. That's where he's taken the lads," Arthur voiced what both of them were thinking.

"I can't find it," said Francis. "Toni can't find it. Gil can't find it." He shrugged hopelessly. "Nobody knows what to do. They're terrified, Arthur. Half the Birdcage has locked themselves in their rooms, afraid that the Doctor's men will come for them next. They're sympathetic, but not helpful. Most of them won't even open their door to talk to me," he said resentfully. "It's like I'm too high-profile. Nobody will associate with me anymore, like I'm marked. It's as if they're blaming me for Mathieu's fate. I'm a Magnus who couldn't protect my Magi."

"Nobody thinks that," Arthur said, noting the Frenchman's creased forehead; his pinched lips; the sorrow in his voice. "You're over-thinking it. It's not your fault, or mine. Everyone is just afraid."

Francis nodded glumly, but it was obvious that he didn't believe the Englishman. "Are you going back to the archive? Be careful, Arthur," he added when Arthur confirmed. "The whole Birdcage is in lockdown. The guards won't hesitate to use force, especially on you or I. As long as the Doctor has our Magis, we're as good as worthless."

Arthur sat up. "Hey, come here," he ordered. Reluctantly, Francis walked to the bedside. It was still dark, but Arthur could see that he had mistaken the bruises on Francis' face for shadows of fatigue. "You should take your own advice and stop picking fights with the guards. Just stay here—"

"No. I'll go to the archive with you to help you search."

Arthur wanted to protest, but Francis' tone was stony. "Where are Antonio and Gilbert?" he asked instead.

"Toni went back to Lovino. He's been distracted all night, not much help searching for the laboratory really. He keeps leaving every fifteen-minutes to check on Lovino, but I appreciate the sentiment." Francis smiled wanly. "Gil and Lars are still searching. Laura just left. She managed to sneak outside, God knows how. She said she'll report back if she finds anything, but I'm not hopeful."

"Okay," Arthur said. He stretched stiffly and Al's t-shirt sleeves slid to his shoulders. "Give me five-minutes."

Five-minutes later, he and Francis were navigating the corridor, which was deceptively cheery with morning sunlight. They took the stairwell, avoiding the elevator, and reached the archive without incident. They were ducking inside when they encountered Yao and Kiku. Both of them looked perfectly refreshed—not a single strand of black hair out of place—which annoyed Arthur when Yao admitted to having pulled an all-nighter, as well. He and Kiku had been using magic to eavesdrop on the guards' conversations, but it was useless. The guards were just as clueless as the magic-users about what was going on.

"Can you really use Kiku's magic to eavesdrop?" Arthur asked in intrigue.

"Yes. Not as well as Elizabeta, but sound-waves travel through the air," Yao explained, "which means that I can use Kiku's magic to choose the direction it flows. It's like shouting against the wind instead of letting it carry your voice. Proximity is helpful. The closer the initial conversation is, the less fractured it is when it reaches us."

"But wait." Francis considered the two Asians suspiciously. "You live just down the hall from Mathieu and I. You've never eavesdropped on us, have you?"

Yao blinked. "So anyway," he said, facing Arthur, "I heard a conversation that might be of interest, though it won't help in finding the Doctor's laboratory. The Birdcage is on lockdown, you know. And anyone caught outside is now going to be subdued with force if necessary. It's like they're trying to corral us."

"But Laura is outside," Francis worried.

Yao and Kiku exchanged a glance. "Is she? Okay, we'll find her."

"You're not afraid?" Arthur asked. He glanced between them, wishing that he felt as confident as they looked. Both of the Asians looked impassive, but Arthur guessed at how terrified they must be. He, himself, felt raw. Yao had already lost his lover. Arthur wondered what he would do if he lost his Magi, too.

"Of course we're afraid," the Chinaman replied. "But hiding in our apartment isn't going to help anyone. The Doctor has already taken too many people. I will do everything in my power to ensure he does not take the twins."

Arthur nodded. "Thank-you," he said. And he meant it.

* * *

**FRANCIS**

Francis? Francis, wake up!"

Francis jolted as if electrocuted. His head snapped up with a loose page stuck to his forehead. Arthur ripped it off.

"Did you hear me?" he huffed. "We've got to go. Everyone is being summoned to the dining hall. Get up, stop drooling, and let's go."

"But the research," Francis mumbled, as if he hadn't fallen asleep in a pile of it. Drowsily, he let Arthur drag him to the archive's door. "Did you"—_yawn_—"learn anything?"

"No, but I have a feeling we're about to."

By the time they reached the dining hall, Francis was fully awake. Adrenaline had reanimated him, especially as they entered. The hall was quiet despite it being full of magic-users and guards. Nobody wanted to talk. They were all tense, afraid. Some glared, others avoided eye-contact. Magnus' held their Magis close, trying to shield them from the guards' guns. The whole hall pulsed with nervous energy from the Magis. If a pin had dropped, Francis wondered how many Magis would attack in reflex, spooked like cornered prey.

Francis stood with Arthur near the entrance and surveyed his fellows. He spotted Gilbert standing beside Ludwig. Together the two Germans looked like soldiers guarding little Feliciano, who was visibly trembling. Nearby, Antonio was hugging Lovino, whispering to him. Lovino nodded; Antonio kissed the crown of his silky head. Roderick squeezed Elizabeta's hand. He eyed a guardsman distrustfully and drew her closer, though she looked more angry than afraid. Toris looked like he was having a panic-attack. His fingers were white-knuckled as he clutched Feliks. Feliks was the only person in the hall talking audibly, trying to reassure his hyperventilating Magnus ("It's going to be okay, Tori. I'm, like, fifty-five percent sure."). Even Sadik and Heracles were standing shoulder-to-shoulder. Heracles kept glancing at Kiku, who was standing back-to-back with Yao, like fighters preparing for an ambush. In a corner by the concession, Raivis looked like he was trying to hide behind Eduard, clinging to his shirt. The Estonian's keen eyes darted from left-to-right, as if calculating their chance of escape. He reached behind him and gently patted the Magi's hand to little effect. The Nordics were standing together by the windows. They looked stoic, like a vanguard ready for a fight. Even Tino, whom Francis considered the mildest-mannered, looked ready to defend himself and his friends with brute force if needed. Berwald kept a hand on the Finn's shoulder. _If looks could kill_, Francis thought, _Berwald would be the most dangerous person here._ His gaze was chilling. _And Mikkel would be second_, he decided, looking at the Dane. Mikkel's whole figure radiated aggression, as if he _wanted_ someone to shoot so that he could retaliate and unleash Bjørn's magic. Bjørn was characteristically cold.

Suddenly, there was a commotion:

"Tell me!" Lars demanded. He was trying to bully a gaggle of guards, using his size to intimidate. He grabbed one of them in anger. "Tell me, you bastards! Where is my sister?"

It was then Francis realized that Laura was not present. _Oh_,_ no_! _Did they catch her_?

The guards shoved Lars back, but Gilbert caught him. Then, together, they leapt forward like wolves.

"Stay back! I'm warning you," said the head-guard, addressing the whole hall.

"Fuck you!" Mikkel shouted. Bjørn didn't blink, but a tremor shook the hall in threat. "What the fuck is going on?" the Dane seethed. "Tell us!"

"I said, stay back!"

"Stand the fuck down!"

"They're just as scared as we are," Francis realized. He gestured at the guards. Arthur nodded in agreement. He said something in reply, but Francis missed it.

Antonio's voice was suddenly panicked. "Lovi, calm down. It's okay. Don't be afraid, _chiquito_. I'm right here."

"Toni, I-I-I—_Ah_!"

Fiery sparks flew off Lovino's skin. He was losing control of his magic and Antonio couldn't suppress it. The Italian's magic was volatile at the best of times—it's why they trained in private—and right now Lovino was panicking. Antonio tried to smother the flames by crushing Lovino to his chest, but it only made the Italian gasp and set both of their clothes on fire. Feliciano squeaked in fear and tried to reach for Lovino, but Ludwig grabbed him. The younger Italian cried-out for his brother, which provoked the guards.

"_Stop_!" they yelled. "_Stop right now_! _Make him stop_!" they told Antonio.

"I-I— I can't!" Antonio stuttered.

Several guards aimed several guns at Lovino. Feliciano screamed: "No, please don't! Don't shoot him!"

An instant later, every gun in the hall collapsed in on itself, crumpling into misshapen heaps as if the metal had spontaneously combusted. Then, as Feliciano reached out, bits of fragmented metal exploded in every direction, like shrapnel. Francis ducked as a shard flew overhead.

"_What the fuck_? _You fucking bird_—"

Before the guard could finish, Ludwig decked him hard in the face. Gilbert joined him, tackling a weaponless guard. It became a brawl. Lars and Mikkel attacked the flanks; Sadik grabbed a guard from behind; Heracles clocked another in the nose; Kiku grabbed Yao and leapt sideways to avoid a collision; Elizabeta grabbed a frying pan from the concession and swung hard, shrieking a battle-cry as she did.

"Let's get out of here!" Francis said, grabbing Arthur's forearm.

Eduard had the same idea. He scooped Raivis off of his feet, threw the Latvian over his shoulder, and headed for the door. Just before he reached it, however, a barrier of electricity erupted. In a split-second, it encircled the hall, fencing everyone inside.

"No one is going_ anywhere_."

Everyone stopped, as if paralysed (except for Lovino). The Doctor's voice cut through the din. Al stood on his left, letting electricity surge from his body in waves. Matt stood on his right.

Francis felt winded, as if he had been punched—again. Arthur shouted: "_Alfred_!" and ran toward him.

"Freeze," the Doctor ordered.

Francis watched in horror as Matt lifted his hand. "No, Mathieu!" He tried to stop the boy, but momentarily blacked-out. It happened fast. When he opened his eyes, he found himself on his knees gasping. _What just happened_? He clutched his chest. A terrible pain had pierced him. _Is this Mathieu's magic_? _It's crushing me_! Shocked, he looked up at Matt, whose face was expressionless. There was no recognition in his eyes. Al looked equally absentminded. The blue-eyed boy cocked his head an inch, staring directly at Arthur, whose legs had been literally frozen to the floor. And if Arthur's stricken face was any indication, then he, too, was feeling the effects of his Magi's unbound magic. _This shouldn't be impossible_! Francis thought, struggling back to his feet. His legs wobbled. _Alfred and Mathieu... no one should be able to possess this much power_!

"Now that I have everyone's attention," said the Doctor amicably. He paused for effect, surveying the damage to the dining hall. He eyed each magic-user darkly. "I'd like to inform you of a little change. A development, really. As you can see, I have taken possession of Alfred and Matthew." He pointed to them but neither boy registered his name. They flanked the Doctor like living statues, radiating power. "Do you see this mark?" He lifted Matt's curls and made him turn, showing everyone the raw brand on the back of his neck. Instantly, Francis felt a wave of hot fury. _How dare that man scar my darling's beautiful skin_! _How dare he fucking brand_ my _Magi_! He cursed in French, but the Doctor ignored him. "This is my personal brand, which means that these two Magi belong to me and obey only me." He paused; chuckled. "I can see by the confused looks on your faces that you don't believe me, so Alfred is going to give a little demonstration. Alfred," he ordered, indicating Lovino's flame-licked body.

Arthur said: "Alfred, no! Stop! _Stop right now_!"

Al barely moved. He focused on Lovino, his target, and snapped his fingers. A bolt of yellow electricity struck Lovino and the boy screamed. The blast knocked Antonio back several feet, ripping Lovino from his grasp. The shock was temporarily blinding, but when Francis peeled open his eyes he saw Lovino's unconscious body lying on the floor. The flames had completely ceased.

"_Lovino_!" Antonio cried. He rounded on the Doctor, seething in rage. "You fucking—_Ah_!"

Francis felt a sharp pain as Matt immobilized Antonio the way he had Arthur, freezing the Spaniard in place.

"I believe that's sufficient," said the Doctor, unperturbed. "Now as I've said, things are going to change here in the Aviary. I realize now just how much liberty you've been given, my pets, and I think it's time I remedied that. So, from now on you will follow a strict regime of my making. No one is allowed outdoors. And no one is allowed in the archive. If anyone is caught breaking these rules, provoking a fight, or attempting to escape, that person will be placed in solitary confinement for a month. A second offense will place you there _permanently._ I will no longer tolerate such lax attitudes. This is a military training facility, after all, not a boarding-school. Finally, all un-bonded Magnus"—he eyed Gilbert and Lars—"will come with me _now_."

"What? Why?" Gilbert demanded. His stance was defensive, but there was fear in his eyes.

"Because," said the Doctor coolly; Al's hands crackled in threat, "I said so. Now let's go."

As Gilbert and Lars were handcuffed and marched to the doors, Francis could feel Matt getting farther away. _No_,_ not again_! _Don't take Mathieu from me again_! He had never felt so trapped in his life. He wanted to shout-out to Matt; he wanted to chase after him, grab him, shake him, but it was useless. There was no recognition on Matt's face. There was no life. Francis didn't know what the Doctor had done to the twins, but the ice-wielding Magi was no longer his Matt. He had become little more than an animated doll, a puppet whose strings were being plucked by a madman. _He doesn't even know who I am_.

"Alfred!" Arthur continued to yell. "Snap out of it, you idiot! Please! Don't do this! Don't go! Alfred! _Alfred_!"

The Doctor let him scream—so did everyone else. Besides the livid Englishman, the dining hall fell into total silence as the Doctor's entourage left. The guards followed. And for a long time nobody moved or spoke. There wasn't anything they could do except watch the Doctor collect his prizes and leave. The weight of this new _development_ was heavy. Then, finally, Francis lost his patience and snapped:

"Arthur, stop!" His voice echoed. The Englishman looked at him in bewilderment, but Francis only shook his head. "It's useless. They're gone."

* * *

**ARTHUR**

Arthur trudged slowly back to the seventh floor, feeling like a sleepwalker. _This can't be happening_, he thought for the umpteenth time. Forty-eight hours ago, his life had been worth living. He had been happy. He had had hope. Now, he couldn't even remember what that felt like.

The magic-users had retreated in a rush, each seeking the safety of their own apartments. Lovino had been taken to the infirmary by Antonio, who had refused Francis' help. "Just leave us alone!" snapped the frantic Spaniard. His outburst had startled Francis, whose melancholy became even more pronounced. "They're blaming us," he said, following Arthur upstairs.

"No, they're not. Nobody's blaming us. Antonio's just upset, he knows none of this is your fault."

"Maybe not Mathieu's abduction," Francis said, "but I'm the one who trained him. And you're the one who trained Alfred. It's our fault they're so capable of hurting everyone else."

Arthur considered Francis' theory, then discarded it."They've been capable since they got here."

Sullenly, he pushed into his apartment and headed to the bedroom. When Francis followed, Arthur held out a hand to deny him entrance. "You get the settee," he said inarguably. "I don't blame you for what happened, Francis, but I'm not sleeping with you tonight. I want to be alone."

Since Francis' apartment had been destroyed, Arthur had offered to let him stay in his apartment. However—call it sentiment, grief, or heartache—he couldn't bear the thought of Francis sleeping in a space that belonged to Al. _If it's not Alfred_,_ I would rather be alone_.

"Fine," Francis agreed. "But I know you're not going to sleep. You're going to keep researching, aren't you?"

"How can I?" Arthur challenged. He was feeling short-tempered. "I'm not allowed in the archive anymore."

"Don't you have books in your bedroom?"

Arthur shook his head. "Nothing useful. They're just folktales."

"But maybe if we—"

"Goodnight, Francis," said Arthur curtly. He slammed the bedroom door.

* * *

**LATER**

Arthur flung a book across the bedroom. It hit the wall and fell open, showing an archer in Lincoln-green. "Fucking Robin Hood," he muttered. It was very early and sleep-deprivation was starting to affect his judgement as well as his mood. He rolled over in bed, hugging Al's pillow. The bedside tables were stacked high with books: folk and fairytales, myths and legends, epics and sagas. From his horizontal position, he glared accusatorily at a crimson book about King Arthur. "Stupid," he spat. "Stupid, useless stories. You're all fucking lies." He reached for the book. "Heroes, unity, equality—? Lies," he told it, and chucked it overhead. Then he grabbed the next one in the stack.

"Fucking fairytales. There's no such thing as good and evil magic. Magic is fucking hard. That's it, you stupid story." He threw it.

"And what are you?" He lifted a thin, gold-leafed book and flipped to a random page. "Ha! The magic of true love's kiss? _Pft_! If only that wasn't so goddamned _stupid_!" he snarled and hurled it at the floor.

The last book in the pile was a big, old, brown tome. It was too heavy to lift one-handed, so Arthur sat up to give it the attention it deserved. "You," he started in degradation, but stopped. He blinked. It took his sleep-deprived brain a minute to register what he was holding, but when he did the fog cleared. "You might actually be useful!"

It was the book he had borrowed from the archive three days ago; the book he had been studying while Al visited with Matt; the book he had completely forgotten about when Al had returned that night, the night of the boy's abduction; the book he had forgotten to return. Quickly, Arthur stumbled out of bed in search of his notebook.

"C'mon," he whispered, re-reading his notes. The book contained information about pagan rites and rituals. Arthur had initially taken it for its elemental lore, since Al's magical specialty was quite rare. He had wanted to know more about it and its possible origins. He had been looking for any mention of electrical magic, but eventually found himself engulfed in a chapter of spells. It had only been personal interest. He didn't actually believe that any of them were legitimate. They were Olde Magick, which was very different from the practices of modern science-based magic the Doctor employed. _But I'm desperate_, he knew, consulting his references. _And if there's even the slightest chance that something in here could save Alfred_, _I'll never forgive myself if I don't at least try_.

He was almost an hour into rereading when a black-and-white sketch caught his eye. It was small, he almost missed it, but he recognized it immediately. It was exactly the same design as the brand on the back of Matt's neck. In disbelief, Arthur read on.

"_Incantation for... loss of self_. No, that's not right."

It was difficult. The spell was written in Latin, which was not Arthur's forte, but he struggled on, clutching at the words he knew.

"_Self-awareness_, or is it_ self-control_—?_ Memory. _This word is memory, I'm sure of it. And this is _chambers. Chambers of memory_. A spell, or is ita curse?" He rubbed his forehead in frustration. "It's a spell thatisolates certain chambers of memory and suppresses self-awareness and self-control! Ah-ha! And this"—he tapped the adjacent page, which was covered in columns of complex letters—"is the incantation!"

"Arthur—?"

Arthur hid the book in reflex. "Oh, Francis." He relaxed.

The Frenchman rubbed sleep from his eyes. "Are you talking to yourself?"

"Uh, yes. But for a very good reason. I've found it, Francis! I've found the spell the Doctor is using to control Alfred and Matthew!"

Francis blinked. "Spell—? I really think it's time for you to sleep, Arthur. You're hallucinating—"

"No, I'm not!" said Arthur fervently. Proudly, he revealed the book. "Just look! I've finally figured it out!" he repeated. "It's not just bastardized magic, it's Olde Magick!"

Francis sighed heavily and sat down on the edge of Arthur's bed. He yawned. "You've lost me."

"Here, just look at it," said Arthur, thrusting the book into Francis' hands. As he read, Arthur lectured: "Olde Magick is what people traditionally believed in, sorcery, witchcraft, faeries— get it?"

"Arthur, please, it's too late for fairytales," Francis moaned. "You picked a fine night to go bat-shit crazy." He started to return the book, but Arthur refused.

"No, this is real! It's the way people used to practise magic. It was a lot more common then, because it didn't require any natural ability. Anyone could do it. Well, maybe not _anyone_, but you didn't have to be like us. You didn't have to be a Magnus or Magi. Magic was more practical then, more scientific. You've heard of alchemy? Witchcraft used a lot of the same applications: ingredients were key. Only, Olde Magick required words of power."

Francis lifted an eyebrow. "Eh—?"

"Spells, enchantments, hexes," Arthur explained. "Look, The Doctor is a scientist. He's not a magic-user like we are. He can't use natural magic, but he does have access to the practices of Olde Magick. I think that he's using his scientific knowledge and combing it with Olde Magick to control what he, himself, can't wield. It's why the Bonding Ceremony uses a spell-circle!" he suddenly realized. "It's why he can subdue us with those weapons. Our magic is based on natural elements and the Doctor controls it by using the natural laws of science to counteract it."

"That's great, Arthur, but it doesn't explain how the Doctor is controlling Mathieu and Alfred. Oh, and this isn't a spell. It's a recipe." Francis tapped the book.

"What? It's a spell."

"No, it's a recipe."

Arthur frowned at Francis. "How good is your Latin?"

"Better than yours," Francis replied, covering his mouth; stifling a yawn. "But this isn't even proper Latin. It's an older, primitive form of the language. I can't read it very well."

"Then how do you know it's a recipe instead of a spell?"

Francis sighed. "See those symbols?" He pointed to a column. "They're measurements. This," he pointed to the paragraph below, "is the incantation, but it's useless without the recipe."

"Oh! It's a recipe for a potion, of course!" Arthur bopped his own forehead. "It's an Olde Magick potion. The incantation must be used to activate the effects of the potion. It does something to memory"—he pointed—"that's why the lads don't recognize anything. The potion is the drug that's physically effecting the lads' bodies, their minds. The Doctor must have injected it directly into their circulatory system; that's what I would've done. And the incantation, the Words of Power are used to verbally bind it and control them, thus completing the spell! That's why the lads only obey his commands, because they've been programmed using this incantation to only recognize his voice because he's the one who performed the ritual. Fuck," he finished on a gasp.

Francis started at him in bewilderment. Then he frowned. "Arthur, this is all really hypothetical. I mean, we know that the Doctor uses a bastardized version of science-mixed-magic, but we don't know anything about how he does it, or how this 'potion' was administered. You can guess at it, but what if you're wrong? The difference between magic and science is precision. Science is founded on very specific principles that, if applied incorrectly, could have devastating effects. If we walk in blind, if your theory is wrong then we could do more harm to the Magis then good. Besides, this potion—presumably—directly effects the brain's memory, but what we need to cure Mathieu and Alfred is the reverse. We need to counter the effects of the potion to bring back their memories and self-awareness. We need an antidote," he clarified. "I'm sorry, Arthur," he added, feeling guilty. "It was a good lead."

Arthur, however, wasn't disheartened. "I still think it's worth translating. Who do we know that reads Latin?"

"This isn't proper Latin," Francis repeated. "This is really old. Like, archaic. Toni reads Latin, but—"

"Good. Let's visit him," Arthur decided. "Maybe, together, we can puzzle this out. I'm not giving up, Francis. Not as long as there's a chance I can save him, them. Remember what Alfred said?" He smiled hopefully. "Sometimes the lost causes are the only ones worth fighting for. Well I'm not done fighting yet."

* * *

**FRANCIS**

**ONE HOUR LATER**

They found Antonio half-asleep in Lovino's hospital bed, cradling the injured boy. Francis gently nudged him awake, which—if the slew of Spanish swear-words gave a clue—was not appreciated. Antonio's emerald-green eyes focused on Francis' guilty face, then moved on to Arthur, who was toting the big, old book. He lifted an eyebrow, and said:

"What?"

Francis hesitated. Antonio looked sad holding his Magi. He showed signs of injury, having been hit with Al's magic, but despite that his eyes were hard. Like an old tomcat, he looked feral. In contrast, Lovino looked small in his arms. "Uh, Toni," Francis began. "Arthur has a theory that might help us rescue Mathieu and Alfred." He glanced at Arthur, who presented the book. Antonio gave them both a quizzical look. Quickly, Francis explained the purpose for their uninvited visit. "So, in conclusion, we need your help translating these pages."

Antonio frowned. "Olde Magick?" he asked, unimpressed. "Look, I know that you're upset about your Magis being taken, but I think what both of you need is sleep, not fairytales."

Francis sighed in defeat. Antonio's skepticism confirmed his own reservations about Arthur's vague theory—and the Englishman's sanity. He was about to agree with his foster-brother, when Arthur interrupted. _Oh_,_ please don't say it_, Francis silently begged.

"Please, Antonio, I need you to translate this incantation so that I can find a spell to counteract the Doctor's potion, which he's using to control Alfred."

_Oh dear_,_ he said it_. Francis closed his eyes in embarrassment. _Toni's going to think we're completely mad_,_ chasing after fairytales._

Antonio was quiet for a minute. Thoughtfully, he glanced down at slumbering Lovino. Then, to Francis' great surprise, he said: "Okay, let me see the book."

Antonio pushed himself into a sitting position and took the old book. As he read, Francis shot Arthur a look of disbelief, which the Englishman returned with a Cheshire-cat's grin. Finally, Antonio set the book down on his lap.

"This is really old Latin," he said, repeating Francis unbeknownst. "It's not a form I ever learnt. The language structure is vague and there are a lot of words I don't recognize. It seems to be referencing a specific ritual. This word here refers to memory, but that's all I can read. Sorry, Francis. My Latin is really rusty."

"I was afraid of that. So is mine. Thanks anyway, Toni."

"Do you think anyone else might know how to read it?" asked Arthur eagerly.

Antonio shook his head. "I doubt it, it's—"

"I can."

Antonio flinched in shock. Lovino's voice was sleep-heavy but his gold-flecked eyes were focused on the book that was leaning open on Antonio's lap. Gingerly, he dragged a finger down the page. "The first column is a recipe for the poison; the second column is a recipe for the antidote. The incantation is mostly just ceremonial. It activates the poison, but isn't needed for the antidote." When nobody replied, he looked up and blinked. "What?"

The three Magnus were staring down at him in disbelief. Then Antonio cried: "Lovi!" and kissed the boy's head. "Oh, God, you're awake! How are you feeling, _chiquito_? Are you okay?"

"Or, more importantly—you read Latin?" Arthur gaped.

Lovino frowned in insult. "Of course I do. Why are you all so surprised? Did you think I was stupid?" he said in defense. "I'm not," he added, in case there was any doubt. "I haven't seen this form in a long time, but I can read it. I can—_ah_!" He cringed and clutched his head. Antonio hovered worriedly. "_Fuck_!" The Italian spat through grit teeth.

"_Chiquito_?"

"I'm fine, I just—_a-hah_!—feel like I got hit by a fucking bulldozer."

"Don't force yourself, Lovi. Just relax."

"I told you, Toni, I'm fine. I can translate that recipe if you want," he finished his previous statement. "It just might take a little time. It's pretty complex and my head is fucking killing me, but if it can help Al and Matt then I'll do it. Get me a notebook," he ordered.

As Arthur hurried to fulfil Lovino's request, Francis said: "You don't blame Alfred for attacking you?"

"Because he's been brainwashed by a fucking psychopath? No," said Lovino charitably. "I don't know about you Magnus, but in the dining hall I could feel the energy radiating from the twins. It was powerful, but not in a good way. It was draining. Even before Al struck me, I could feel my magic weakening in reply to his barrier. The sheer pressure of it was exhausting. I can't even imagine how the twins are feeling. I don't know what the Doctor's done to them," he said sympathetically, "but whatever it is, it's not going to last long."

Francis frowned. "Not last? What do you mean?"

Lovino licked his lips; shifted; cringed. "I can't really explain it, it's just a feeling. But I do know that a Magi can't maintain that kind of power for long. Not even ones as strong as Al and Matt."

Before Francis could reply, Arthur returned. He gave Lovino a notebook and, ignoring Antonio's concern, the Italian set diligently to work. Francis and Arthur left so as not to distract him. Both were still secretly impressed by the strong-willed Italian, who had never shown the slightest inclination toward academics before. They soon found themselves in the common-room, which was empty. Francis circled the pool-table several times before he realized he was doing it; Arthur was pacing back-and-forth, biting his thumbnail. Both felt hopeful now that they had a lead, but anxious while they waited. Finally, Francis said:

"They don't blame us."

"I told you so," said Arthur absently.

"I'm glad they don't. I'm glad we have allies."

Arthur paused at Francis' word choice. "Allies?" he repeated. "Are we going into battle?"

Francis nodded. "Yes, I think so. I think it's time we did. It's been too long, Arthur. If we succeed and rescue the boys, I'm _not_ staying here. I refuse to subject Mathieu to this place or that man any longer. It's over. He's gone too far. I won't play by his new rules and I won't go back to the way it was before. I won't wait around to be sold like fucking livestock. I promised I would protect Mathieu and that's what I'm going to do. If we succeed in rescuing them, I'm leaving. I don't care if it kills me, I'm getting Mathieu out of here forever."

"Those are strong words coming from you, frog-eater," Arthur noted. He eyed the Francis cynically.

Francis smirked. "Don't ever underestimate a Frenchman's declarations of love or war, Arthur."

For once, Arthur agreed. He grinned in approval, and said: "Vive la fucking France."

* * *

**ARTHUR**

Vive la fucking France," he said. In comradeship, he punched Francis' shoulder.

"Does that mean you're with me?"

"Well I'm sure as hell not against you. Not this time, frog-eater."

Just then, the common-room door flew open with a loud clatter that made both Magnus flinch. It revealed a red-faced Mikkel, whose clothes were in disarray and whose bedraggled blonde hair was messier than usual. "_You_!" he gasped, breathing hard. He held up his index-finger in pause while he tried to catch his breath. "I've—been—looking—every—where—for—you!—_Fuck_!" he spat in annoyance. "Al's—magic—broke—elevators. Had—to—take—stairs," he gasped in explanation. Arthur and Francis waited impatiently for the Dane to compose himself, which took longer than expected. (Mikkel _looked _fit.) As soon as he did, however, all he said was: "Follow me."

They followed Mikkel back upstairs to his and Bjørn's apartment, where they found the Norwegian sitting on the floor in the centre of several pages. Each page was taped to its neighbour by its edges, and Bjørn was drawing on them in pencil. It was a continuous sketch of interconnected lines and scribbles. Specific lines, Arthur noted, were colour-coded and as he drew nearer he recognized the shape.

"It's the Birdcage," he blurted. "You're mapping the whole facility."

Bjørn didn't reply. He took a bubblegum-pink pen from behind his ear and highlighted a long, twisting line that overlapped three pages. Satisfied, he nodded and stood up.

Mikkel said: "I'm sorry it's taken so long, but we've finally found it. The Doctor's laboratory." He pointed to a page labeled FIRST FLOOR, wherein a spider-web of pink lines met.

"The lab—? You've been searching for it this whole time?" Arthur said in surprise.

Francis uttered a quiet "_Sacrebleu_!" in amazement. He and his friends had been searching for the laboratory for forty-eight hours.

Mikkel grinned proudly and looked to Bjørn.

"Yes, since the twins were taken," Bjørn confirmed.

"You didn't really think we were hiding, did you?" Mikkel criticized. He crossed his strong arms and inhaled, puffing-up his broad chest and lifting his chin. Despite the theatrics, he looked dangerous. "If you think we're scared of that psychopath, you're wrong. Norge and I have been waiting a long time for an opportunity like this, a chance to give the Doctor a taste of his own fucking medicine. He's kidnapped his last Magi. Al and Matt were the last, but I'll be fucked if he gets to keep them. You two look like shit, by the way." He smiled at his fellow Magnus. "But if you think you're the only ones who've had enough of _this_"—he gestured, indicating the Birdcage— "you're wrong again. Call the twins' fate a catalyst. The Doctor just started a fucking war by taking them, but thanks to that," he smirked devilishly, "we now know where his secret lair is, which means we can finally strike back."

"I can sense hollow passages in the earth," Bjørn explained. "Tunnels, corridors. And since yesterday, I can feel the twins' presence. Every Magi can," he said, re-confirming Lovino's statement. "It's really uncomfortable. It's so strong that it's giving the less experienced Magis—Feliks, for certain—a terrible headache. Al and Matt radiate energy. I'm sure you can both feel it. When they're close, the effect is crushing," he described. Reluctantly, Arthur and Francis nodded in agreement. "It's because the Doctor is taking no precautions to moderate their magic. I don't think he even knows how. But because of that, I can feel their presence wherever they are, except for when they're in the laboratory. That's where I lose them, which is weird because I can sense all of the tunnels underground. The only conclusion is that the laboratory walls are made of iron. Iron eats magic, it absorbs it. You both know this," he dismissed. Again, the two Magnus nodded. "I found the laboratory by process of elimination," Bjørn continued. "It's the only place in the entire facility that I can't feel. It's the only place where I lose track of the twins' movements. But I didn't actually know where the entrance was until yesterday."

Arthur's eyes went wide. "You found it?"

"No," said Bjørn. "Feliciano did. His magical specialty finally revealed itself yesterday when he attacked the guards. Or specifically when he attacked their guns. It's metal," he clarified. "Feliciano can manipulate metal, which is an extremely rare talent. I've never even heard of a Magi who could combat iron, but he can. It has no effect on him. Really, it's a wonder that nobody discovered his ability sooner, though he does tend to avoid confrontation with the guards. And Ludwig has always favours his fists. It doesn't matter. The boy's an anomaly," said the prodigy seriously. "And it's a good thing he is, because this morning he found the laboratory's door."

Arthur held his breath. He was afraid to believe it, but eager as well. _Alfred_, he thought, unable to suppress a small smile, _I'm not the only one trying to save you_. _I knew we weren't alone_, _because we're not the only ones in danger. Francis_,_ Mikkel—they're both right_,_ enough is enough. It's time to fight back._ _It's time to get the fuck out of this place. _Looking at the determined Norsemen, he felt a swell of gratitude for their tireless efforts; for Feliciano's rare gift; for Lovino's diligence; for Yao's promise. He remembered how everyone had attacked the guards together in the dining hall. _They were just waiting for an opening and Feliciano provided one. It's like a chess game_: _the Doctor made his move when he took the lads_. _Now it's our move. _Absently, Arthur bit his thumbnail. His mind raced. _We've always fought alone_,_ we've never combined our strengths before_. _That's why we keep losing. You can't win a chess match with only one piece. Each piece has a different strength and you have to use them accordingly. We can't escape from this place alone_. It was pointless to try. _But maybe we can all escape together._

"—you're mapping a path to the laboratory's door," Francis' voice interrupted Arthur's thoughts.

"Yes." Bjørn gestured to his map. "It'll guide you to the door. Feliciano will unlock it for you, but once inside you'll be on your own. This," he pointed to a large red X, "is the safest exit. It leads to the harbour. Grab the twins and get out as fast as possible, because I don't know how long the rest of us can hold off the guards. There are ten of them for every one of us, and the Doctor will have a contingency plan now that their guns are useless. It'll be risky."

"But it's a risk we're willing to take," Mikkel reiterated.

"It might be riskier than you realize," Arthur admitted. "You see, it's not a matter of just grabbing the twins."

Quickly, he summarized his Olde Magick theory and the likeliness of needing an antidote to rescue the twins. "Lovino is working on translating the, uh... potion now." Despite his resolve, he blushed. Francis, Antonio, and—he even suspected—Lovino didn't entirely believe in Arthur's _fairytale_ magic, but they were going along with it because they had no other leads. But now, Arthur was afraid the Norsemen would scorn his theory as well. Mikkel frowned, as expected, but, to Arthur's great surprise, Bjørn's pale eyes grew wide in astonishment. He said:

"Of course! Why didn't I realize it sooner? It's the only plausible explanation!"

"_Plausible_?" Mikkel repeated skeptically.

Bjørn ignored him. He looked straight at Arthur, reading him with those bottomless eyes. And the ghost of a smile curled his lips. "You have a plan," he approved. It wasn't a question.

Arthur nodded: "Yes. I think so."

"Good, because the twin's don't have much time."

The underlying threat in Bjørn's voice made Arthur's stomach twist. Francis sounded scared when he asked: "What do you mean?"

Bjørn sighed. He hadn't wanted to tell them, Arthur realized. The Magi looked to his Magnus, who nodded.

"The Doctor is not a Magnus," Bjørn stated obviously. "The only way he can control the twins' magic is by keeping it locked-up inside them. But even that isn't working; they're still radiating energy. If their unbound magic is this strong outside their bodies, just imagine what's happening inside where the majority of energy is being contained. It has the same effect on Magi as iron handcuffs do. It caps our magic so we can't release it and gives us terrible pains and migraines. Now multiply the handcuffs effect by a thousand. That's what Al and Matt have been experiencing since the Doctor took control of them. He has to keep their magic sealed inside because he can't control it the way a Magnus can—the way you two can." He glanced between Arthur and Francis. "You both moderate your Magis' magic naturally, without even thinking about it. Your proximity to them automatically moderates the flow of natural energy in them, except that right now your influence is being blocked. It's dangerous," Bjørn stressed, "because the energy is just building inside of Al and Matt without anywhere to go. It's not the same as trying to suppress it, like Matt was doing before the bonding," he added in explanation. "It's worse, because Al and Matt physically can't expel it even if they try. It'll continue to build inside of them until it completely consumes their mortal bodies."

Arthur swallowed. "You mean—?"

"If you don't reverse it soon, the twins' hearts are going to burst."

Francis made a strangled noise that reminded Arthur of a hunter's prey. "How long do they have?" he asked in a soft, scared voice.

Bjørn sighed. Suddenly, he looked tired.

"With that kind of power? Maybe forty-eight hours if they're lucky."


	16. Chapter Fourteen

**DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya**

**BIRDSONG**

* * *

**FOURTEEN**

**ALFRED**

Al stared at the wall-mirror. Cornflower-blue eyes stared back at him. It was a nice face, pleasing to look at. He really liked it. He cocked his head and watched his reflection mimic the action. _Is that really me_? he wondered. He squinted, then frowned, then grinned. _Yes_, _it is me_, he decided. _There's definitely something familiar about that face_,_ those eyes. They're beautiful_. But those weren't his words; they belonged to someone else. Vaguely, from somewhere deep in the depths of his memory, Al could hear a sweet voice saying: "_Your eyes are beautiful_,_ Alfred_. _I love them. I love you_."

"I lo—" Al stopped. Cautiously, he glanced at the Doctor, who was taking Matt's blood-pressure. He tried to catch Matt's eye, but the pale-faced boy might as well have been asleep. He stared at the wall without blinking as the Doctor poked at him. He didn't even flinch. Al hadn't heard the other boy utter a single syllable since waking up. He thought that, maybe, the other boy couldn't speak at all. Yet, there was something undeniably familiar about him. Just as there had been something very familiar about the green-eyed man in the dining hall. Seeing him there, Al had felt a strong urge to go to him; to be close to him. _He knew my name. He spoke it with a foreign accent_. _It sounded good. I liked it._ "I... love you," he whispered. It was an experiment. The words tasted strange. He watched his reflected face contort in puzzlement, trying to remember if he had ever spoken those intimate words before. He blushed suddenly, embarrassed, but he didn't know why. He felt hot when he thought about the man's shouts and the despotism on his handsome, freckled face—Al shook his head. _No. I don't know him._ He searched his memory for the green-eyed man's name, but he found nothing. "No," he repeated aloud. "I don't love—"

"Alfred, are you talking to yourself?"

The Doctor's tone was disapproving. Al swallowed in apology; he feared the Doctor's disapproval.

His head felt painfully numb. It had been pounding, throbbing, aching for so long. He wanted to scream; he wanted to cry. He couldn't remember a time when his body didn't feel strained or stressed or tired. But he feared the repercussions of lashing-out. He feared what would happen if he voiced his opinions, if he complained, afraid that the Doctor would increase the pain in punishment. He had done it before to the other man, the big one whom he locked in a cell in the dark; the one whom he called his _lab-rat_. Al sympathized with that man. He wondered how long the Doctor had been using him for experiments. _Am I an experiment_,_ or am I the finished product_?He started to wonder if maybe—_No._ _It's too hard_, he yielded, squeezing his eyes shut. _Thinking is too hard_,_ it hurts too much._ He opened his mouth to speak—

"Don't speak, Alfred," said the Doctor firmly. "I forbid it."

A jolt like a tiny electric shock pierced Al's brain and compulsively he closed his mouth. Helplessly, he looked at Matt, who hadn't moved. Matt. _Mattie._ Al didn't realize how long he had been staring, hoping the boy would look at him, acknowledge him, until the Doctor said:

"Alfred, stop it. Stop staring at Matthew. What is wrong with you?" he asked, eyeing the boy suspiciously. He circled Al like a vulture, jabbing at him experimentally. He took Al's chin between his wiry thumb and fore-finger and gazed directly into the boy's blue eyes. Satisfied, he said: "Sit."

Al sat down on the floor. _Mattie_? He looked up at the violet-eyed boy, who still hadn't moved. The boy who hadn't shown the slightest interest in Al or any inkling of recognizing him. As if a barrier hid Al from his view, Matt looked right through him, seeing only the floor. Al sighed in defeat.

_It's cold down here_, he thought absently._ I don't like it. I don't like the Doctor. I want to—_

What? Something struggled in Al's submerged thoughts, fighting to break free. It was just out of reach.

_I want to—I want to—_

It hurt so much. Thinking hurt, but Al persisted. He was so close. So very close. It was right there, he could feel it. _I want to_—

_ —go home._

* * *

**ARTHUR**

Ready?" said Francis.

Arthur pocketed the page Lovino had translated from the spell-book and pulled up his coat's hood. It was Lincoln-green. _Like fucking Robin Hood_, he smirked. Francis was dressed in a long navy-blue coat that brushed his knees. He had tied back his curling hair, revealing the angular bones in his face, emphasizing the determined intensity of his gaze. In an inside coat-pocket, Arthur could see the hilt of a razor-sharp kitchen knife sticking out. _I'm glad it's you_, he thought, surprising himself. _I'm glad you're with me_,_ Francis. _They had been alone together for seven years. Since the very beginning they had shared the same fate, like brothers. It was fitting that they would fight together now at the end. Companionably, Arthur extended his hand.

"It's been_ interesting_ knowing you, Francis."

Francis took Arthur's hand and shook. "Likewise, Arthur." His blue eyes flashed. "Let's go."

They walked downstairs, where the other magic-users were congregating. It was late-afternoon, nearing six o'clock suppertime, which they used to avoid suspicion. It wasn't unusual for friends to meet early before the food was served. It was, however, unusual for friends to meet armed to the teeth with concealed weapons. As Arthur entered, he felt the crowd's tension. But it was unlike fear, which had permeated the dining hall that morning. This time it was bold and aggressive, like a snake about to strike. This time Arthur let it fuel him, feeding on it and taking comfort in the knowledge that he—_they_—weren't alone.

"You've got to be fast," Mikkel said to Ludwig. "As soon as Feliciano has opened the lab's door, you've got to get back to the surface as fast as possible to disable the guards' weapons, otherwise we don't stand a chance."

"I know," Ludwig confirmed. He looked like the soldier he had been before the Doctor's men plucked him off the battlefield, standing tall and rigid, accepting a mission of great importance. His focus was unnerving. He would have looked cold, merciless, if his left hand hadn't been linked with Feliciano's right. That's when Arthur realized: _He isn't a killer_,_ not truly. He's just trying to protect what he loves._ Gilbert was the same, all red-eyed intimidation when needed, but soft at his core. It was strange seeing Ludwig ready to fight without his brother beside him, like a big arch missing a pillar. Then Ludwig's ice-blue eyes pierced he and Francis, and he said: "Do you know what you're doing?"

"No," Francis replied honestly, "but it's too late to turn back now."

"It's a gamble," Arthur agreed, accepting the map from Bjørn, "but it's the only choice we've got. Whether we recover the twins or not"—his voice cracked—"we're getting out of here tonight. All of us."

There was a chorus of support, hushed to avoid suspicion.

"We won't have the element of surprise for long," Mikkel said. "I'm willing to bet that the Doctor has an ace security system. He'll know the instant that unauthorized personnel enter his laboratory. The second you're in, we'll start the attack. Hopefully it'll distract the guards for long enough to buy you a little time. If we don't meet you at the harbour, then leave without us. The rest of us will take the mountain-path down the beach and meet you on the other side. If we're not there by sunset, just go.

"Good luck," he added.

Then they were gone, Arthur following Ludwig's fast-pace as he led the foursome down the corridor, into the dark stairwell to the second-floor. The air was much warmer underground, heated by the hot springs that warmed the bathhouse. Miles of twisting rivers and pockets of springs simmered beneath the mountain. If you listened carefully, you could hear it flowing on the other side of the bathhouse walls. If not for the thick metal walls that reinforced the tunnels, the Birdcage's underground floors would be flooded with steaming water. _I bet he uses it as a power source_, Arthur mused as he hurried after Ludwig, Francis close behind him. When they reached a fork, Ludwig slowed and let Arthur take the lead. Using Bjørn's map, he guided them through a low-ceilinged labyrinth of dimly-lit tunnels, which gradually sloped downward, going deeper. _This is taking forever_! _Did I miss something_?Arthur was starting to doubt the map's reliability when he spotted the laboratory's door. It was unimpressive, just an ugly metal door with a keypad on the wall beside it.

Feliciano ignored the keypad. Instead, he placed his fingertips on the door and gently caressed the metal. His hands worked slowly. Arthur could see frustration on the Italian's face as he searched for the tumblers, trying to feel the complex mechanism through a foot of solid steel. His was a newly-discovered talent, after all. Feliciano had had few precious hours of practice, and the Italian had never worked well under stress. He had never won a sparing-match before. When he cursed softly, Arthur and Francis exchanged a glance that was equal parts concern and impatience. Then Ludwig cupped Feliciano's hand with his and the boy visibly relaxed. He seemed to take comfort in the presence of his Magnus. He closed his eyes. Ludwig concentrated, directing Feliciano's magic, and soon Arthur could hear the lock's heavy tumblers releasing one-by-one. Feliciano silenced the alarm a beat too late. It sounded loud and shrill in the tunnel, echoing off the steel walls. Arthur held his breath, but nobody came running.

"You've got half-an-hour at most," Ludwig said in farewell. "Good luck."

Then he and Feliciano were gone, racing back to the surface, while Arthur and Francis crossed the threshold into the unknown.

"If you were a Doctor Frankenstein wannabe, where would you hide your secret lab?" Arthur whispered as he and Francis searched the corridor, which opened into a large, dense space. It was packed with supplies: hundreds of crates and packing-boxes covered in stamps, some of which identified hazardous material. Arthur accidentally hit one stack, which was piled high against a large container, the kind used to transport large quantities of goods via ship.

"Arthur, _there_!" Francis pointed.

It was dark, but a pale white light reflected off an expanse of windows. A curtain was half-drawn, but Arthur could see the shapes of long tables and wicked-looking medical equipment inside.

"_Yes_! Well-done, frog-eater!"

Arthur took a step toward the laboratory, but flinched in shock when the container beside them suddenly shuddered, as if punched. Then a low, strangled voice called from within. It was unintelligible, but it drew both Arthur and Francis to it. "Hello?" the former called, knocking experimentally on the outside. An internal knock answered. An unspoken agreement passed between Arthur and Francis, and together they pried the container open. It was dark inside. At first they saw nothing but a ragged shape. Then:

"_Bloody-hell_!" Arthur gasped in disbelief. His freckled face paled, seeing a ghost. "_Ivan_?"

Ivan lifted his head, hands still clenched in weak fists. Disoriented, he blinked. His eyes looked big in a face bony and sunken, half-starved. His skin, too, looked starved. It was pale and sallow, as if he hadn't seen the sunlight in—twenty-three months.

"_Sacrebleu_!" Francis exhaled.

As they half-dragged Ivan out of the container, Arthur registered the Russian's beaten state. His skin was ice-cold and covered in raised surgical scars. _How many times have you been sliced open_? Arthur wondered. The clothes clinging to Ivan's diminished stature left little to the imagination. The Doctor had spared nothing in his experiments. Ivan's torso had been cut so many times that he really _did_ look like Frankenstein's monster. Like a beast, his voice was low and growling, guttural. He sounded parched. But the first thing he said was:

"Is Yao okay?"

Francis' voice was feather-soft in pity: "Yes."

They entered the laboratory with Ivan suspended between them. "I'm okay," he mumbled, groping for a seat. He lowered himself shakily down, refusing help. "I'll be okay. Just let me sit a minute." It was then that he seemed to look at his rescuers, from Arthur—who was fervently searching the laboratory, consulting Lovino's instructions before pulling ingredients from shelves—to Francis—who was aligning beakers on a metal tabletop, preparing a still. Like a practised alchemist of eons past, he ignited a fame, which glowed blue. The Russian cocked his head, and in a curious tone unsuited to the atmosphere, asked: "What are you doing?" The unasked question in his voice wondered why they weren't trying to escape.

"I— _we_ have to save our Magis," Francis explained. "The Doctor took them from us, he possessed them."

"You're talking about the little ones—?"

Arthur wouldn't have described Al as _little_ exactly, but he nodded in confirmation. "Yes, Alfred and Matthew. Have you seen them?"

Ivan's downcast gaze was not hopeful. "Yes," he said cryptically.

"I'm sorry, Ivan, but we're not leaving without them."

That said, Arthur resumed his search. He collected armfuls of ingredients and laid them out on the tabletop, flinching every time he heard a noise. _We're running short of time_, he thought, fighting panic. He consulted Lovino's precise notes and deduced that the potion-brewing would take at least fifteen-minutes. _How long did Ludwig say we had_?_ How much time has already expired_? He flinched when the instructions were suddenly plucked from his hands. "Hey—"  
"You can skip this step," said Ivan, reading it. "And this one. These ingredients have already been distilled." Like a druggist in a pharmacy, the Russian opened a cupboard and produced two vials of a clear, odorless liquid. "I've been in this room dozens of times," he said in explanation. "I've seen this serum made before."

It was decided then that Ivan would help Arthur brew the antidote whist Francis went in search of Lars and Gilbert, whom the Doctor's men had taken.

"If Ivan was being kept locked away, Gil and Lars probably are too. I can't just leave them here," he argued.

Arthur nodded in agreement. "Okay, go. But he careful. We don't have much time."

* * *

**FRANCIS**

Francis skulked through the corridors like a thief, avoiding the pools of dim, yellow light. He stayed close to the walls, his eyes searching for shelter in case he was detected. More than once, he touched the handle of the kitchen-knife that was tucked into his coat. It made him feel both reassured and nervous. Francis wasn't a fighter at his core. In truth, he disliked violence more than most. Even full-contact sports really weren't his preference. He had spent the past seven years of his life fearing the day he and his Magi would be sold. _For what purpose_? he wondered. He knew that most Magnus-Magi pairs were sold to be soldiers, bodyguards, fighters, shields for their masters. But Francis didn't want that. He didn't want a life of violence. He wanted to be a chef. (Since coming to the Birdcage, he had never told anyone that—except Matt.) _Oh_,_ my Mathieu_,_ where are you_? he worried as he surveyed the darkness. His heart hurt when he thought about Matt, but his hand on the knife's handle was steady. _If I have to_, he steeled his resolve, _I'll stab anyone who gets in my way. To save my Mathieu_,_ I'll kill them all._

_Clang. Clang. Clang._

Francis heard the faint disturbance and cautiously crept toward it. A prison-cell, not unlike Ivan's but bigger, stood at a short distance. In the dead-silence, Francis could hear a muffled voice from within. It said:

"Stop it, it's useless. You're giving me a headache, Gil."

"Fuck, Lars! I'm getting out of here if it's the last thing I—"

Gilbert's raw fist flew at the cell's door just as Francis pulled it open. Quickly, the Frenchman sidestepped the attack, and the German fell. Clumsily, he stumbled and caught his balance, doing a hop-skip-dance as he did so.

"Fran!" he exclaimed upon seeing Francis. Unceremoniously, he threw his arms around the Frenchman.

"Hush, Gil," Francis whispered, pressing his hand to Gilbert's mouth. Quickly, he glanced from Gilbert to Lars, who emerged from the cell, looking tired. Gilbert, too, had dark circles under his eyes; never-mind his bloodied knuckles. When Francis was satisfied that neither Gilbert nor Lars was going to cause a ruckus, he bobbed his head in the direction of the laboratory. "This way," he said.

Francis had barely taken a step, however, when Lars' grabbed his forearm. The Dutchman's sage-green eyes looked ghoulish in the yellow light. He said: "I saw where he took your Magi. Arthur's too."

Francis' felt a shiver. "Where?"

Lars' pointed.

"Fran?" Gilbert said when Francis started off. "Franny, wait! You can't go back there, it's too dangerous!" he whispered harshly. He raced ahead and tried to block Francis' path. "You saw what those kids did, they—"

"Get out of my way, Gil." The knife gleamed in Francis' hand, reflected in his determined blue eyes. If there was a chance—the smallest chance—that Francis could rescue the twins without a fight, then he would take it. Besides, in order to administer Arthur's antidote, they had to know where Al and Matt were. Gently, Francis placed a hand on the German and nudged him aside. "I have to find him—_them_," he said quietly. "If I don't, we can't save them."

"_Save _them—?" Gilbert gaped. "Francis," he paused, afraid to voice it, "you can't. They're not Al and Mattie anymore, they're shells. We saw them, didn't we, Lars?" Hesitantly, the Dutchman nodded. "Mattie's gone, Francis."

"No, he's not!" Francis snapped, shoving past Gilbert. _He can't be_.

"If you don't want to come with me, then go back that way," Francis gestured, "it's two left turns. You'll find Arthur there with Ivan."

"_Ivan_—!" said Gilbert and Lars in bafflement. "But Ivan is—"

"Look, I don't have time to explain!" Francis snapped. He waved the knife impatiently. "Come with me, or go back. I don't care. I need to find the boys."

That said, he stalked off, clenching the knife in a white-knuckled hand.

* * *

**ARTHUR**

That's it," Arthur said, wide-eyed as he watched the slow drip, drip, drip of the distillation process. He needed at least eighty millilitres to serve both of the twins; forty millilitres each. The recipe was spread out in front of him, covered in handwritten notes and calculations. His brain felt fuzzy with calculations. It ached. Maths had never been Arthur's worst subject, but it had never been his best either. _If I miscalculated even one step_—He shook his head, rejecting the thought. It was too late to restart now. For better or worse, he had to trust his own abilities—something he had never been very good at. Arthur was a teacher, an instructor, a _drill-sergeant _(said Francis); he was a thinker, not a doer. It was—all things considered—likely why he and Al worked so well together, because Al was a doer. They really did make an excellent pair; they balanced each other. _Opposites attract_, he thought absently as he waited for the drip, drip, drip to fill two vials.

Ivan offered Arthur two syringes. His hand was shaking badly.

_He's sick. And he's failing fast_, Arthur thought bleakly. The Russian already looked like resurrected death, as if he might collapse at any moment. But even if that happened, Arthur couldn't wait. Others might call him cruel and merciless, but the Englishman was not someone who would be distracted by a deep, moral dilemma. Call it cold, hard logic, but he knew exactly what his priority was, and it was not Ivan.

_Alfred. He's what I'm here for. I'm sorry_, _Ivan_,_ I am_,_ but if you can't keep up with me_,_ I'll leave you behind._ Then again—

In his peripheral vision, Arthur saw Ivan move in a slow but deliberate way. And he reconsidered.

_Well_,_ he's lasted this long._ A half-smile curled his lips._ He might just make it._

Just then, an exclamation in a foreign tongue made Arthur flinch. He turned and found Lars standing in the doorway, staring at Ivan in horror. A second later, Ivan's legs buckled. Lars caught him. "You're alive," he said in awe, pulling the Russian's arm over his shoulders in support.

"Yeah... for now," Ivan managed. He leant heavily on the big Dutchman.

As Arthur filled two syringes with the clear serum, he was secretly glad for Lars. He, himself, could not—and would not—have been able to carry Ivan. "Where are Francis and Gilbert?" he asked, capping the syringes. He placed them in his coat-pocket protectively, like coveted treasure.

"They went to find your Magis," Lars replied. "I know the way," he added, helping Ivan to the door.

"Good, because I doubt we have much time—"

The words had barely left Arthur's lips when a piercing siren rang-out.

* * *

**FRANCIS**

Francis hovered nervously at a glass window, hugging the shadows as he stared into a small bleach-white room. There was nothing inside, except for a couple of tables with restraints, a bare table, and a long wall-mirror. Oh—and the two Magis. They were sitting back-to-back on the floor, staring vacantly at the tiles. Neither of them spoke or moved, as if they were two puppets awaiting animation. Matt's back was to Francis, but he could see Al's dulled blue eyes glazed over like a drug-addict's. The sight of them made Francis feel sick. Like Ivan, the twins reminded him of a madman's creations, but unlike Ivan, who looked like an experiment, the twins were the finished product. No surgical scars; no signs of starvation or abuse. The Magis were just as attractive as ever, but—

"Are you sure they're not dead?" Gilbert whispered in Francis' ear. "They look... creepy."

Just then, Al cocked his head. Francis and Gilbert both froze; Francis held his breath. He worried that Al had somehow heard the German, but he merely turned his head toward Matt. It was grotesque, like watching a clockwork doll move. He turned his head to the side, exposing the Doctor's sigil tattooed to the back of his neck, then he stopped. He blinked, as if he couldn't remember what he was doing. It was such a sad sight. Suddenly, Francis was glad that he couldn't see Matt's blank face.

"Now what?" Gilbert insisted. "How do you plan on getting close to them without, oh, I don't know, dying?"

"Mathieu's magic can't hurt me."

"But Al's can."

Francis clenched his jaw. _If only they weren't being held together. If it was just my Mathieu_,_ I might be able to sneak up behind him without him noticing._ It was risky, of course. Though Matt's magic couldn't physically hurt Francis, he could use it to prevent the Magnus getting close to him. Matt's magic—more so than Al's—was defensive, after all. If Francis failed to restrain him before Matt unleashed his magic, then Matt would summon a blizzard or a wall of ice, which would make it _very_ difficult for Francis to get close enough to administer the antidote.

"I have to lure them out," he thought out-loud. "I have to separate them, then take my Mathieu by surprise. But how do I get their attention?"

No sooner had the words left his lips, then a piercing siren rang-out.

"ALFRED, MATTHEW," said the Doctor's omnipresent voice through a speaker, "KILL THE INTRUDERS."

Francis watched in horror as the twins stood in union and locked eyes with him, as if they had known he was there all along. He felt as if the world had turned upside-down. A feeling of dread seized him, and he uttered a single word:

"_Run_."

Francis and Gilbert took off like greyhounds tearing through the underground, with Al and Matt in pursuit.

"Well, you got their fucking attention!" Gilbert yelled, leading the way. He dodged a pile of crates and then kicked hard, knocking them over as soon as Francis had passed, creating a barrier. However, a blast of lightning told the Magnus that it had barely slowed the twins. "Just _had_ to be the best fucking trainers in the Birdcage, didn't you?" Gilbert snarled, dodging left-to-right in a serpentine fashion, Francis following close behind. Together, they crashed into a wall to avoid a bolt of white-hot electricity, then continued on.

At the end of the corridor, as it opened into a wider space, Francis spotted Arthur, Lars, and Ivan.

"Francis!" Arthur shouted above the siren. "I got it! I've got the antidote—"

But Francis flew past him, grabbing the Englishman's arm as he did.

"RUN!"

A moment later, Al and Matt's blazing figures raced into view and the party needed no further prompting.

"_What the fuck did you do_?" Arthur yelled as Francis dragged him.

Francis ignored him. It was he, now, who was leading the pack. Gilbert had chivalrously taken Ivan's weight to aid Lars, the two of them half-dragging, half-carrying the injured Russian between them. As Francis navigated the corridors, trying to remember Bjørn's map, he could hear Gilbert's voice behind him chanting: "Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!" Suddenly, the German yelled: "_Get down_!" Francis had barely comprehended the panicked order when Arthur shoved him roughly to the floor. A bolt of hot lightning struck Arthur and knocked him off his feet, but aside from the brutal force, the attack left him unscathed. He was on his feet again in seconds, pulling Francis up and shoving him forward.

Francis ran left, then right. He felt like he was lost in a labyrinth, running blind. Again, he tried to picture the map in his mind's eye, but everything was happening too fast. Every time he passed a corridor branching off to the left or right, he momentarily panicked, thinking that he had missed a vital turn. But it was a fleeting panic. The threat of death-by-electrocution was much more pressing. That is, until he led them into a dead-end.

"Oh, fuck," he said in English. He looked at Arthur, whose face was pale as milk. Desperately, they slammed their hands into the wall, searching for a latch, a lever, a crease—anything that suggested a passage beyond, but found nothing. It was just a thick concrete wall. _No_, _no_, _no_! he thought, as the others shouted: "Do something, hurry!" _We're trapped_, he knew, back pressed to the cold concrete. _Trapped like rats in a maze. There's no way out. Oh_,_ God_. His heart pounded and a raw, animalistic fear seized him. He stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Arthur. When Al's figure raced into the corridor, his entire body aglow and crackling with golden electricity, Francis had never felt more afraid in his entire life. That was it. There was no escape. His last thought was:

_We're going to die_.

* * *

**ARTHUR**

The wall behind Arthur shuddered. Then exploded.

One second, he was standing with his back pressed to the wall, watching as certain death approached him in the form of Matt's blistering ice. The next, he was lying face-down in a pile of rubble, having been blown off his feet. _What the_—? Arthur crawled to his hands-and-knees and spotted Al and Matt shaking their heads, dazed, and pushing themselves to their feet only a few yards away. _Alfred_! he thought. Then someone—Francis—yanked him backwards through the crumbling hole. He felt lush grass under his shoes as he stumbled free of the dark tunnel, which opened into a narrow field at the base of the mountain. Incredulously, he looked up. The imposing structure of the Birdcage rose above him like a stone giant rising from the mountain depths. _We travelled all the way to the bottom_? He stared in amazement. _That means_—he turned his head and spotted the ocean lapping at the shore—_the harbour_!_ This is exactly where Mikkel told us to come_!However, there was little time to gape in disbelief. A breath of stinging cold air blasted from the tunnel, and this time it was Francis who shoved Arthur aside.

"_Whoa_!" said a familiar voice in awe.

As Arthur hurried to his feet, he came face-to-face with—

"Feliks?"

The Pole's huge, round eyes looked like saucers as he stared at the mess. Then Toris grabbed him and ran.

The others followed.

"Was that _you_?"Arthur called in disbelief.

"Uh, yeah!" Feliks replied.

"How did _you_ do that?"

"I have absolutely no idea—_Ah_! Hey, Tori, slow down!" Feliks, whose slender legs weren't as long as Toris', was having trouble keeping pace with his fast Magnus, who was tearing through the field toward the water as if the devil was after them. Feliks stumbled and tripped, clutching tightly to Toris' hand. When a bolt of lightning crackled overhead, missing the Pole by few precious feet, the Magi reissued his request: "Tori, speed up!"

"Arthur!" Francis gasped, running side-by-side the Englishman. "We've got to split-up. We've got to split _them_ up," he implied the twins. "Otherwise we don't stand a chance."

"Right. Here." Clumsily, he shoved one of the syringes into Francis' hand. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments, then Francis raced off, following Toris and Feliks down toward the water while Arthur turned back in the direction of the Birdcage. Gilbert, Lars, and Ivan followed him. And so did Al.

_That's right_,_ Alfred_, he thought, gasping now as he ran. His legs felt like jelly; he was already starting to slow down, energy spent. _Come on_,_ darling_,_ follow me. _Even as Arthur branched off from the others, doubling-back in a circle, Al followed him, blue eyes locked on him like a magnet. _You know me_,_ don't you_,_ love_? _I know you do. I know you're still there_,_ Alfred_. Finally, Arthur stopped. He stood in the middle of the field, facing Al. He clenched his hand around the antidote.

"That's right, love," he said in a soothing tone. It was shaky, he was breathing hard, but he had Al's undivided attention. "Focus on me, Alfred. Just me. Only me. That's right," he repeated as Al took a cautious step forward. He looked like a wild animal, a predator sizing-up his prey. It took all of Arthur's courage to remain still. His survival-instincts wanted to run, but aside from being exhausted, he knew he couldn't outrun Al. The Magi, however, wasn't even panting; nor sweating; nor showing any other signs of exertion or fatigue. He looked as beautiful as ever. But it was false. Al was hurting. The closer he got, the more Arthur could see it. The boy's face was white and his eyes looked feverish. His movements were jerky. His lovely full lips were parched and pursed, as if in pain.

"It's alright, my love," Arthur cooed softly, keeping eye-contact with the volatile Magi. Slowly, he uncapped the syringe. "Everything is going to be alright. Don't be afraid, Alfred."

Al stopped. He cocked his head, frowning.

"Alfred, yes. That's you, darling. Do you remember me?" Arthur asked, taking a step toward the boy. "Do you know who I am? I'm Arthur. I'm your... friend. I don't want to hurt you."

Al closed his eyes for a second, then reopened them. The blue sparkled, reanimated. "_Arthur_," he said.

Arthur nodded, ignoring the tears that sprang to his eyes. "Yes, that's right, Alfred. It's going to be okay. I'm here."

"_Arthur_," Al repeated. Gingerly, he lifted his hand, reaching out to the Magnus. Their fingers touched.

Then the Doctor's poisonous voice said:

"ALFRED, KILL HIM."

* * *

**FRANCIS**

Feliks yelped as he tumbled into the sand, slicing his slim hands. The beach was rocky, treacherous for runners. Toris spun back, an expression of horror on his face. Protectively, he threw himself over his exposed Magi, hugging Feliks to his body as he braced himself for attack. Francis hollered as Matt raised his hand to strike-out at the helpless pair, but Matt didn't pause; he didn't slow. Frantically, Francis yelled again: "_Mathieu_,_ please stop_!" but nothing in Matt's face or body-language even suggested he had heard.

_Fuck_! Francis raced down the slope. _Why won't you listen to me_, _Mathieu_?_ Why won't you follow me_? _Why won't you even look at me_?

It was pure luck that Matt had followed Francis when the party severed, because even now he didn't appear to recognize Francis at all. Francis had tried to lead Matt away from the beach. He had tried to get Matt's attention, trying to make the Magi chase him, even just look at him! If he could corner the boy, he might be able to restrain him. Yet, despite the connection they shared, Matt had paid Francis no more attention than anyone else. It was not a hunt for Matt. It was simple annihilation. He would attack anyone in his sight-line. And just then, he saw Toris and Feliks.

"_Mathieu_, _stop_!" Francis yelled, leaping in the attack's trajectory. It hit him square in the chest, an icy gale. It knocked him back and stole his breath. He coughed. It chilled his whole body, as if he had been drenched in ice-water. _God_,_ that's unpleasant_! Shivering, he regained his feet and glared at his Magi.

Matt merely stared at him

"_Fine_," he growled, clenching his shaking fists. "I don't know what that sociopath has done to you, but I don't care. I don't care that you don't know me, Mathieu. I'll _make_ you remember!" he snapped in determination. "Even if I have to _force you_!"

Francis ran at Matt. In defense, the Magi retreated into the water, knee-deep, and raised a large curtain that instantly froze: an icy, translucent wall. Francis splashed into the cold water and kicked uselessly at the ice, but it was solid. He ducked to the side, but another wall rose before him. The tide sloshed against it, frothy with ice. Francis was shivering violently; from rage or the cold, he didn't know.

"Mathieu!" he screamed, clawing at the ice. He drew out his knife and started slashing madly, desperate. He could feel the antidote's weight in his pocket, but it was useless as long as he couldn't reach Matt. _I can't help him if I can't get close to him_. _Goddamn it_! _What do I do_?

Suddenly, the ice surrounding Matt shattered.

Francis whipped around in shock and saw Bjørn standing a few feet away, ankle-deep in water, his hands raised, his violet eyes alight—glowing.

The last time Bjørn's eyes had glowed, he had nearly killed Mikkel. It had been long before Francis' capture, but he had heard the story in hushed-voices. It had been an accident, an unfortunate side-effect of the Magi's unstable power. Bjørn had mastered his magic soon after _the incident_, but if there was a piece of worthy advice Mikkel shared with every new recruit, it was: "Don't fuck with people who glow."

Mikkel stood behind Bjørn looking fearsome, like a big, brutal warrior. His muscular bulk nearly dwarfed the Norwegian in size. Together, they looked deadly.

Matt raised a defensive wall of ice, but Bjørn broke it. It shattered in a rain of a million ice-crystals. And for the first time since Matt had been forcibly taken away, Francis saw the Magi hesitate. He stepped back when Bjørn stepped forward, neither breaking eye-contact, like two dogs readying to attack.

"Francis," said Mikkel lowly, "we'll create a distraction, you stick the kid with the antidote. You're the only one who can get close enough. But do it fast. I don't know how long Bjørn will last."

In proof, Matt lashed-out angrily and Bjørn was knocked back. His whole body trembled with the effort of holding back the force of the younger Magi's attack. He retaliated, but it barely slowed Matt. They danced in a watery, icy circle, striking out and deflecting blows. Francis inched ever forward, searching for an opportunity to get close. It wasn't a friendly duel; it was a battle-to-the-death. _Please_,_ don't hurt my Mathieu_! Francis worried. But it was Bjørn who was panting. The longer the fight carried on, the more reckless the Norwegian fought, desperate to end it. Francis had to dodge a few of Bjørn's ruthless attacks, which exploded around him. He almost snapped at Mikkel, but then he saw the Dane's face. He was afraid. Francis had never known Mikkel to show fear, but as Matt's magic scored Bjørn with cuts and bruises and blows, pushing him back, forcing him into a defensive position, just barely holding back the boy's violent attacks, Francis understood the Dane. _He's watching his Magi—his lover—get beaten to death_.

Finally, Bjørn fell to his knees. His eyes stopped glowing.

Mikkel ran to the fallen Magi. Francis ran to Matt.

As Matt prepared to serve Bjørn a fatal blow, Francis saw his opening and he took it. He leapt at Matt from behind and locked his arms around the boy.

"Don't let him go!" Mikkel yelled over the gale that exploded from Matt in retaliation.

Matt thrashed wildly back-and-forth, trying to get free. He clawed at Francis. The ice bit; the water splashed; the wind blew, but Francis held on. Like the day he had told Matt to let go of his magic, before they were bonded, he held the frozen sixteen-year-old close and didn't let go. Matt had been screaming back then, but now he was silent. He had cried back then, but now he was emotionless. He had been afraid of hurting Francis back then, but now he wanted to kill him. Like an unbroken horse, Matt tried hard to get Francis off of himself. Eventually he fell into the icy water, still whipping back-and-forth. Francis' head submerged, then broke the surface as he struggled.

"Mathieu, I swear to God—_Ah_!" Francis used his weight to drag Matt to the shore. "I'm going to—_Gah_, _fuck_! I'm going to save you if it's the last thing I do!" he yelled, panting hard.

He was soaked and shivering and fighting the love of his life in the eye of a wicked storm, but finally Francis forced Matt onto his back. He straddled the boy, grasping his throat with one hand as the other groped for the syringe in his pocket.

"I'm sorry, _chéri_," he said, ripping the cap off with frozen fingers. "Please, forgive me."

He stuck the needle-point into Matt's neck.

* * *

**ARTHUR**

Al struck at Arthur, who—with nowhere to run—closed his eyes.

A gust of wind hit the Englishman square in the face, blowing back his hair. He opened his eyes and saw Al imprisoned in a cyclone. The boy looked just as stunned as Arthur felt, until his eyes landed on Yao and Kiku, who stood at the Birdcage's base. Angrily, Al charged the wall of wind, like a predator in a cage, and was thrown back. He snarled and tried again. Electricity crackled over his skin, making it glow like molten-gold. Bolts of searing-hot lightning tried to escape the cyclone, but the airy mass twisted to compensate.

"Well, don't just stand there!" Yao snapped suddenly.

Arthur blinked.

"He's _your_ Magi! Fix him!" the Chinaman shouted, long black hair blowing like a flag. He stood side-by-side with Kiku, whose eyes were fixated on Al. Both of the Asians looked pathetically small compared to the seething, blue-eyed Magi they had trapped. But the force of the high-speed wind crashing around Yao and Kiku was as strong as a hurricane condensed into a cyclone. It looked as if it should have knocked them both over, but they stood firm, unlike Al, who tumbled back-and-forth like a pinball. Yet, despite their focused—almost serene—expressions, Yao's voice cut the illusion of effortlessness. "Arthur!" he urged. "Kiku can't keep this up forever! Do something!"

"Right! I, uh... I'll just..." Arthur inched cautiously toward the cyclone. His hair and clothes tugged rapidly at him, pulling him from side-to-side. He dug his heels into the ground, trying not to get sucked in. He could barely keep his eyes open. He could barely see Al behind the wall of furious wind. Every few seconds, the centre would light with a bolt of lightning—and Kiku would flinch—then it would go dark again.

_What do I do_? Arthur panicked. Aloud, he shouted: "I can't get close!"

"If Kiku lets Al go, we're all dead!" Yao rebutted.

Suddenly, a powerful arch of lightning exploded from the cyclone's centre. Yao dodged left; Kiku leapt right. It happened fast, but Kiku's barrier was weakened enough for Al to charge through it. He was panting hard, but a wild spark lit his face, his eyes. He looked insane. _That's not my Alfred_, Arthur thought hopelessly. He tried calling out to the boy, like before, but this time Al's attention was fixed on a target: Kiku.

Kiku tried to catch Al in another wind-trap, but he lacked momentum. He, too, was red-faced and panting hard. He tried a frontal attack, but Al dodged it. Like a sparring-match contestant, he circled wide around Kiku, using his environment to his advantage. He kicked off of the Birdcage's base, and launched his whole body at Kiku.

Yao shrieked. Arthur yelled. Kiku gasped.

Herakles grabbed Al in midair and threw him forcefully against the stonewall. He pulled Kiku to his feet and, together, the two older Magis faced-off against the young powerhouse. Sadik stood at a distance, as if he and Yao were two coaches on opposite sides of a fighting-ring. Between them all, they cornered Al. And Al felt it. In retaliation, the boy struck out at everyone in sight. It was all Kiku and Herakles could do to contain Al's inhuman power and try to protect their Magnus. _Don't hurt him_, Arthur found himself thinking, even as he watched Herakles fall and howl in pain; even as Kiku hit the ground hard, crying-out; even as Al's lightning struck the grass and flames erupted. _Please_,_ don't hurt my Alfred_.

"Kiku!" Yao yelled. They had successfully backed Al against the fortress wall, and Kiku used his wind magic to keep him there.

"Yes, yes! Just hold him for a little longer!" Arthur yelled as he advanced, fighting the wind. He clutched the antidote in his hand.

Al struggled madly, electricity coating his skin, scorching the wall. He tried to push forward, but the force of the wind threw him back.

"It's okay," Arthur said, inch-by-inch. "Alfred, it's me. It's Arthur. It's okay, darling, just calm down. I'm not going to hurt you. I promise. Alfred, please."

Al's eyes locked with Arthur's, and, like before, he hesitated.

"Yes, that's right, Alfred. I'm here. It's going to be okay—"

"_Kiku_!" Herakles suddenly yelled. He was holding the Japanese by the shoulders, lending Kiku his strength. At first Arthur couldn't see anything wrong. Kiku looked as focused as ever. Then he saw the blood. A crimson line of blood was running down Kiku's lip from his nose. He was trembling. "_Kiku_,_ stop_!" the Greek yelled in fear.

His voice broke Arthur's soothing spell and Al lunged at him in attack. But Arthur didn't just stand there like a coward. This time, he threw his whole weight at Al and pinned the Magi to the wall. It stunned Al for half-a-second, but half-a-second was all Arthur needed.

_Please_,_ Alfred_, _I know you're still in there_!_ Come back to me_!

Recklessly, he kissed Al.

And stuck the needle-point into his neck.

* * *

**ALFRED**

Al stiffened. The pretty green-eyed Magnus was kissing him—_kissing him_. He didn't understand. _What's happening_?

"KILL HIM! ALFRED, KILL HIM!" the Doctor's voice echoed in Al's head, but he didn't respond. He merely blinked, hands flexing.

_No_,_ I don't want to_, he thought. _Don't make me kill him. I don't want to kill him. I don't want to hurt him. I want to_... _kiss him_.

Slowly, Al raised his crackling hands. They hovered up over the green-eyed Magnus, but the electricity didn't hurt him. Al was glad. The Doctor screamed at him. The Magi's hands hesitated at the Magnus' neck—"_Alfred_,_ destroy him_!"—then continued upward until they came to rest on the Magnus' face. One hand cupped the back of his feathery, windswept head; the other gently guided his chin up, closer, lingering at his jaw and throat as Al leant in and returned the kiss. He felt a cool sensation spreading from the pinprick on his neck, an emptied syringe, but he barely registered it. He felt relief as he closed his eyes and sunk into the Magnus' inviting embrace.

"Alfred," he said softly, pulling back. His Lincoln-green eyes were sad and gentle as he gazed upon Al's face. "Do you remember now, love? Do you remember me?"

"_Arthur_," Al whispered, dazed.

Arthur smiled; relieved tears beaded in his eyes. "Yes, Alfred. Yes, it's me. It's me," he repeated, pulling the boy into a hug.

Al wrapped his arms around Arthur. He wasn't sure which of them was shaking, maybe both. "Help me," he said. "Please, Artie... make it stop."

"Okay, hush. It's okay," Arthur soothed. Gently, he stroked the back of Al's bowed head. "It's okay, I'm here."

As the antidote spread through Al's circulatory system, he could feel the pressure in his head, his whole body lessening, the magic releasing. Arthur's proximity was comforting; Al felt naturally drawn toward him like two magnet poles. As the Magnus' voice and touch soothed him, he automatically regulated the flow of magic. Al could feel Arthur metaphysically pulling out the excess energy, like water emptying down a drain. Al could have cried it felt so good. He sighed deeply and let his body fall limply against Arthur, who lowered them both slowly to the ground.

"It's okay, love," Arthur said, kissing Al's forehead. "I've got you. You're safe."

* * *

**FRANCIS**

Matt's body went limp as the antidote coursed into his bloodstream. He stopped thrashing and for a moment simply stared at Francis. Francis relaxed.

"Mathieu?"

Matt didn't blink. He didn't speak. He reached up and touched, not the needle-point, but the opposite side of his neck, where the Doctor's poison had been injected. He touched one hole, then the other. Francis hadn't noticed the second hole until now, a second dose of poison. He frowned in worry. Could the antidote be wrong? Perhaps it hadn't been strong enough? Perhaps Matt was in shock. Gingerly, he reached for the boy.

"Matt—"

Francis gasped. His mouth filled with hot, salty blood. In disbelief, he looked down and saw the kitchen knife buried deep in his stomach, Matt gripping the handle. The boy's violet eyes were dead-looking.

"_Mathieu_," he whispered, cupping the boy's cheek as his body buckled. A tear fell from his eye and landed on Matt. "_I'm sorry_."

_I'm sorry I couldn't protect you. I'm sorry any of this happened to you. I wanted to save you_.

"_I-I—I'm sorry_..."

Then nothing.

* * *

**MATTHEW**

Francis died. And Matt screamed.

And screamed.

And screamed.

A sharp, agonizing pain like nothing he had ever felt cut through the fog of possession and he screamed like a gale. He felt like he was dying, except there was no reprieve of oblivion, no emptiness, just pain. So much unbearable pain. He screamed in despair and in heartache. He threw his head back, eyes closed as tears rolled down his frosty cheeks, freezing as they fell. The world around him had quieted, no longer threatened by the Magi's power—the wind stopped; the ice melted; the water settled—but inside Matt felt like his heart had been ripped in half.

"No! No, no, no!" he sobbed as he cradled Francis' dying body. He was wet with blood. So much blood. Matt tried to staunch it, but it was useless. It flowed relentlessly. The knife had torn too big a gash. "I'm sorry," Matt cried, pressing his forehead helplessly to Francis'. "I'm so, so sorry. Please..." He kissed Francis' cheek, as if that would heal him. Then he kissed the Frenchman' bloody lips. "Please, don't go. I need you... I love you...

"Francis, I love you!"

Matt's tears fell onto the bloody Magnus and froze.

_Froze._ _Ice. Water. Ice is just frozen water. Blood is ninety-two percent water._

"_You could freeze the blood in their veins_," said Francis' voice in Matt's memory.

Only half-conscious of what he was doing, Matt laid Francis' body down in the sand. He pressed his hands flat to the Frenchman's bloody stomach and concentrated on every molecule of water, every ounce of blood, and in an instant he froze it all. He sealed the wound closed with ice and stopped the flow of blood inside the Magnus' body. He stopped the Magnus' heart from beating it's last beat, forcing the Frenchman into a coma on the cusp of death.

_Okay_,_ now I just... I just need to put it back... I need his blood back in his body... I need to restart his heart before it's too late. I need... I need..._

Hysterically, Matt squeezed his eyes shut, and screamed:

"_AL_!"

* * *

**ALFRED**

BANG!

Al dodged sideways, pulling Arthur with him. The ground sizzled, blackened in the place they had just been. Al followed the attack's trajectory and spotted the Doctor standing atop the Birdcage at the trigger of a huge, swiveling gun. He barely had time to see it recharge, glowing blue, before it fired again. "_What the fuck_ _is that_?" Al gasped at the same time Arthur said: "Oh, no! _Feliciano_!" Al followed his sight-line and saw the little Italian lying unconsciously in Ludwig's arms. Ludwig's face was stark-white. The guards were closing in fast, re-arming their guns faster than even Elizabeta could sabotage. There were too many of them. "_Look out_!" Gilbert yelled. In horror, Al saw him run directly into a bullet's path and shove Ludwig and Feliciano aside. He cried-out as the bullet hit him and fell to one knee.

_We're losing_, Al thought, watching helplessly. The magic-users were being overwhelmed, even as they fought desperately back. He watched as Feliks loosed a barrage of force, knocking back an onslaught of guards, but the power swept him off his feet. He crashed into Toris and neither of them recovered in time to escape a blast from the Doctor's gun. Raivis created a force-field that deflected it, but the blow shattered the shield on impact. "_Run_!" Laura shouted as she pulled a dazed Feliks to his feet. No one needed telling twice, everyone who could ran for the harbour; Lars grabbed Gilbert around the waist and together they followed. _Run._ _Run. Run._ The word repeated over-and-over in Al's head. _Run. Run. Run._

_ They're not going to make it_, he realized.

The guards rapidly discharged their weapons, now. A bullet cut into Sadik's bicep; he growled. Al summoned a whip of electricity and struck-out at the guards who came too close. He stood up and spread his arms like a shield, letting blistering electrical currents roll off his body in waves. Arthur stood close behind him, a hand on Al's shoulder in support. _It's just like a sparing-match_, he thought, letting Arthur guide his attacks. He took a step forward and the guards stumbled back. He felt suddenly powerful, fueled by anger and guilt. He hated these men. He hated the Doctor who had tried to steal his magic and use it to hurt everyone else. _I won't let you hurt them_, he thought, determined. _They're my friends. They're my family. I won't let you take them. I'll kill you_. He glared directly up at the Doctor and felt the masked man's hard return-stare in his blood. Deliberately, Al reached up and laid his hand over Arthur's on his shoulder. Arthur squeezed in reply.

"Run," Al said calmly to Yao, who was standing nearby.

Yao regarded him with anxiety, then trust. In understanding, he locked eyes with Al and nodded. He signaled to Sadik and Herakles, who was kneeling worriedly at Kiku's side. The Japanese Magi's face was smeared with blood and he was gasping, trying hard not to faint. Yao hauled him mercilessly to his feet, supporting Kiku's weight as he led the foursome toward the harbour; Kiku's fingers coiled in the back of Yao's shirt, holding tight.

"That's everyone," said Arthur, as if he had read the Magi's thoughts. Al scanned the immediate vicinity, but he didn't spot any more magic-users trapped in the no-man's-land between he and the Doctor; everyone—even the guards—were heading toward the harbour. Arthur's voiced tickled Al, his soft lips brushing the shell of the boy's ear, but his words were harsh. He said: "_Do it_."

Al did.

As the Doctor aimed and fired his deadly gun—BANG!—Al struck back. He didn't dodge it; he didn't run. He and Arthur stood their ground and gathered enough concentrated energy to combat the weapon's glowing discharge. The force of it hit them hard; Al felt his feet slide back, but Arthur held him. He placed both of his hands on Al and together they withstood the blazing attack.

"_Hold on_!" Arthur yelled.

Al grit his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut as beads of sweat rolled down his face. He panted. He bowed his head and growled with the effort of holding back the Doctor's attack. His arms started shaking. He felt Arthur's body move closer, back-to-chest as he reached around Al and grabbed the Magi's forearms, lending him strength.

"_Alfred_!" he yelled over the torrent of raw energy. "_Push back—now_!"

With a final great surge of power, the Doctor's attack fell victim to Al's electricity. Golden light swallowed the blue and exploded in a blinding light. The force of it echoed across the mountains, creating a gust that struck the gun's base and swiveled it to the right. The Doctor, too, fell back upon impact. But he wasn't finished. Outraged, he crawled over to the gun and reached for the trigger, intending one more shot—but not at Al and Arthur. Now, the gun's barrel was facing the harbour. Terrified, Al whipped around and saw its target: Yao and Kiku, who were limping awkwardly, several paces behind everyone else. Al and Arthur started running, but Al knew they would be too late.

That's when he saw Ivan.

* * *

**IVAN**

Ivan stumbled and hissed through his clenched teeth as he clutched his middle. But he had made it. He had made it to the top of the Birdcage and now stood ready to face the man—the monster—who had made his life a living nightmare for nearly two years. He took a step, faltered. He grit his teeth and ignored the throbbing pain and forced his broken body to move forward one foot at a time. _I've got you now_, he thought murderously. _This time you've got nowhere to run. This time I'm going to kill you_. The Doctor hadn't noticed him yet. He was facing-off against a powerful lightning attack, the likes of which Ivan had never seen. It was incredible, strong enough to fight the Doctor's bastardized gun. _Just a little farther_, _ almost there_. He reached out—

Suddenly, a deafening blast and a blinding light exploded. It knocked Ivan back, off his feet. He landed hard on the rooftop; the Doctor landed a few feet away. The gun's barrel swivelled violently before coming to a deadly stop, pointing directly at the harbour; at the escaping magic-users; at Ivan's friends. At Yao.

As the Doctor crawled fervently to the gun and reached for the trigger, Ivan didn't think. He hurled himself forward. _No_! He forced himself to his feet, forced himself to run. _No_, _I won't let you_!

"_No_!" he yelled as he crashed into the Doctor and tumbled over the rooftop's edge.

* * *

**ALFRED**

_No_!" Al yelled as Ivan and the Doctor fell from the top of the Birdcage.

The Doctor's shrill scream came to an abrupt stop as he hit the hard ground and crumpled, dead. But before Ivan joined him, a gust of wind swept under him. Al whipped around and saw Kiku's on his knees, his arm extended, his face screwed into a frown of intense concentration. It didn't last long. Kiku collapsed and the wind died, but it was enough to slow Ivan's fall. The Russian hit the ground and lay still. Al raced toward him, Arthur close behind. Antonio and Lovino reached the scene first—_Where did they come from_? Al had thought everyone was at the harbour—but Yao's slight figure shoved them all aside.

"_Ivan_? _Ivan—_!" he gasped in panic, in disbelief. He fell to his knees beside Ivan's prostrate figure and laid his delicate hands on the Russian. He was crying, sobbing; Al wondered if he even noticed. "_Ivan_," he whispered so softly.

Slowly, Ivan's violet eyes peeled open. "_My Yao_," he said in quiet Russian. He smiled. "_Don't cry_."

Yao pressed his forehead to Ivan's, clutching him, overwhelmed, and cried harder.

Al look at Arthur, whose lips were lifted in a tired smile. He pulled the Magnus closer, holding him in a one-armed hug against his body. Arthur leant into his touch and wrapped an arm around Al's waist in reply.

"That's it," said Lovino. He was bruised and bleeding from a cut on his cheek, but his gold-flecked eyes were bright. He tapped the Doctor's corpse with the toe of his shoe. "He's dead," he reported. "It's over."

"Almost," Antonio corrected. He looked up at the Birdcage in disgust, then looked from Yao—who was aiding Ivan, trying to lift the heavy man—to Al and Arthur. Arthur nodded, reading Antonio's intent. The Spaniard grinned; his emerald-green eyes looked wild. "Lovi," he said, placing both of his hands on Lovino's shoulders. They stood at the base of the Birdcage, their prison, glaring fiercely up at it. Lovino's hands sparked, then engulfed in flame. In Spanish, Antonio said:

"_Light it up_, _baby_."

Al watched in deep satisfaction as Lovino set the Birdcage ablaze. The guards who had remained, those who hadn't abandoned post at the Doctor's sudden death did so now. Quickly. Al hollered in victory. He lifted Arthur right off his feet and kissed him; he spun around. Arthur laughed, throwing his arms around Al's neck in reply.

"It's over! We're free!" Al cried happily. "_We're fucking free_!"

Then he heard Matt scream.

* * *

**MATTHEW**

AL!" Matt screamed; once, twice, thrice. "_Somebody help_!"

He was kneeing over Francis' frozen body, his trembling hands pressed flat to the Frenchman's stomach. His handsome face had gone a pale bluish colour that whispered death. A tear landed on his cheek and froze—Matt's tear, he couldn't stop crying, even as he screamed at the top of his lungs. He knew that he couldn't sustain the ice forever. He was already losing control of his magic. He could feel it melting, slipping away, and Francis life along with it.

"Matt." Bjørn reached across Francis' lifeless figure and grabbed Matt's shoulders. He squeezed in support. (Mikkel held Bjørn from behind.) "Focus, Matt. You've got to stop panicking and focus. Look at me. _Look at me_."

Matt tore his eyes away from Francis and looked at Bjørn's bruised face, into the Norwegian's pale eyes.

"Focus on what he taught you," Bjørn said. "Focus on the water molecules and don't let go. Do _not_ let go."

_I won't_.

"Breathe," Mikkel advised. "In. Out. In. Out."

Matt took a deep breath, then exhaled it on command. Again—in, out, in, out. He listened to Mikkel's voice and did exactly what he was told; he stared into Bjørn's eyes, using him as a focal-point to channel his concentration. As his breathing regulated, his panic slowly ebbed. He pushed it to the back of his mind and focused instead on his magic, the element itself. _Just like training. Just like a sparing-match_, he thought, pretending that there was no more at risk than a humiliating yield. Eventually he could hear Francis' voice in his memory, guiding him. He imagined the Magnus' warm touch, his encouraging smile, his tender words. Slowly, Matt felt the ice reshaping and growing colder, stronger, more solid.

"Good," said Bjørn.

Matt opened his eyes. He hadn't realized he had closed them or when. He spotted Berwald and Tino standing behind Mikkel, watching him. When he caught Tino's eye, the Finn crept cautiously over and knelt beside him. Softly, so as not to break Matt's concentration, he said:

"If you can re-start his heart, then I can put the blood"—the water—"back in his body."

"I can't." A pinch of panic. "I can't do it without—"

"_Mattie_!"

Matt risked a glance. Al was racing toward him, Arthur, Antonio and Lovino close behind. Seeing his brother caused a wave of relief to wash over Matt. It gave him hope.

"Al," he said evenly, "I need you to jump-start Francis' heart like you did Arthur's, remember?"

Al's cornflower-blue eyes were wide in amazement. "Mattie," he said, looking from Matt to Francis. "How are you doing this?"

"Very, _very_ carefully," Matt said, biting back his impatience. He had to stay calm. He had to focus. He had to breath.

"Suspended animation," Arthur said in awe. "He should be d-dead." His voice broke. He was looking down at the deathly pallor of his best-friend, transfixed somewhere between hope and horror. "But he's not dead. You..." He looked at Matt, and repeated Al's query. "How are you doing this?"

"Al," Matt said, ignoring Arthur. He could feel doubt clawing at the corners of his mind. "I need you to jump-start his heart—_now_."

"Oh, right. But I, uh... I don't know if I can, Mattie. I... I've only done it once, and that was—"

"_Try_."

A tear rolled down Matt's cheek.

Al yielded. "Okay. Artie, help me."

Arthur stooped next to Al and placed his hands over Al's. Al folded his over Francis' chest like a paramedic. "Carefully," Arthur instructed. Matt could practically see him working-out the calculations in his head, measuring the amount of power he needed to channel. Too little and the electricity would have no impact. Too much and it could fry Francis' heart. "Ready, love?"

Al nodded.

Matt glanced at Tino, who nodded as well.

"One, two, three—!"

Electricity surged from Al's hands into Francis' chest. The Frenchman's body flinched, jolted. "Again," Matt ordered. Al repeated the pulse. "Again."

"Again."

"Again."

"Matt—"

"Again."

"Matthew—"

"Again"

"Mattie—"

"_Again_... _please._"

The electricity crackled and sparked, too much. "_Oops_—" Al started, but stopped. A heartbeat pulsed beneath his hands.

Francis' chest expanded and he gasped, his eyes flying open in fervour.

"Now, Tino!" Berwald ordered. "Matt, let go!"

Matt removed his hands from Francis' torso and let go of his magic. The ice thawed, reverting back to water, which Tino manipulated. Like a film on a back-reel, Matt watched as the Finn pulled Francis' blood from everywhere it had spilled—the ocean, the beach, his clothes, Matt's hands—and slipped it back into the Magnus' body through the flesh-wound in his stomach. One of his pale hands hovered over the wound as the other worked in an intricate dance over the rest of Francis' body like an orchestra conductor. He was circulating the blood, pumping it into Francis' heart and re-oxygenizing it before distributing it throughout his body.

"I can't close the wound," Tino said, never taking his eyes off his task. "I can only hold the blood inside."

Matt was about to suggest bandages, ready to tear up his own clothes if it would help, but he needn't have.

"Move," said Lovino, squeezing in beside Tino. He produced a flame and held it until it heated his palm to a stinging degree, until his skin glowed faintly red. Then he slapped it down onto Francis' skin without any warning. There was a sickening sizzling sound as the wound cauterized. Francis screamed weakly.

"It's okay, it's okay," said Matt when Lovino was done. In appeasement, he placed a cool hand over the burn that Lovino's fire had left. It was definitely going to scar. "_Hush-hush_, it's okay. It's okay, I'm here. I'm sorry," he said. He was crying again, and trembling, but he couldn't seem to stop. "I'm so, so, sorry. Please forgive me. Francis, I..."

Words failed Matt. Instead, he leant down and kissed the Frenchman's cheek, then his lips. Once, twice.

"_I love you_," he whispered against Francis' lips. "_Please forgive me_,_ Francis. I-I-I—I love you._"

"Mathieu, _chéri_, come here."

Matt replied instantly, moving into the safe circle of Francis' loving arms. _I don't deserve this_, he thought, even as he wrapped his arms around the Magnus, hugging him. He buried his face against Francis' neck, letting fine strands of the Frenchman's long blonde hair brush his skin. _I'm sorry_,_ I'm so_,_ so sorry_,_ Francis. I'm a horrible Magi. I couldn't protect you_,_ I—I—I nearly killed you_! The more Matt thought about what he had almost done, the worse he felt. His chest tightened in despair and he cried harder now in grief than he had when he was panicking, only silently; not making a sound; not causing a fuss. Francis of course could feel Matt's tears on his skin, but the others had slowly moved away, seeing only a Magi who needed to be with his Magnus. But inside Matt's heart was breaking.

_I don't deserve you_, he thought, just as Francis said:

"I'm so glad you're safe."

Matt pulled abruptly back and stared down at him, bewildered. "_Me_?" he gaped, tears on his cheeks. "You're glad that _I'm safe_?"

"Of course," Francis smiled. "I'd never have forgiven myself if you got hurt, Mathieu. I was so afraid of losing you. So very, _very_ afraid." Gently, he reached up and brushed back Matt's curls, cupping his cheek. "I love you, _chéri_."

The tenderness in his voice was too much. Matt's voice shook. "I-I-I—I l-love you, t-too. _So much_. Please," he begged, bowing his head repentantly. "Please forgive me."

"Mathieu," said Francis, lifting Matt's head, angling it toward him as he leant up. "There's nothing to forgive. You saved my life. And I don't just mean today. You," he whispered, ghosting his thumb over Matt's parted lips, "are the love of my life."

"And you're mine."

* * *

Matt and Francis were still kissing—soft, chaste kisses that conveyed more emotion than what words could describe (words had never been Matt's forte, after all)—when Al's voice called: "_If you don't hurry up_, _you're going to get left behind_!"

Matt pulled regretfully up and looked at his brother, who was smiling. Al was standing on a dock in front of a boat bobbing restlessly in the water. Arthur stood nearby, as if he didn't want to be parted from Al. They were holding hands, refusing to be parted. Matt knew the feeling.

Carefully, he helped Francis to his feet. The Magnus grimaced and his forehead creased in pain, but his lips curled into a grateful smile as he leant against Matt. Matt held him close, taking the brunt of his weight. "Come on," he said, starting slowly toward the boat. "Let's get the fuck out of here."

All of the magic-users—the people whom Matt had come to think of as his friends and family—were already aboard. The boat's sails were already billowing, and he thought it was Kiku's magic, until he saw the Magi passed-out in Herakles arms, resting. The pair sat beside Yao and Ivan,—_Ivan_? Matt gaped—who's injuries were being tended to by the Chinaman, who kept wiping conspicuously at his eyes. Elizabeta offered them her help, but Yao dismissed it. Elizabeta smiled and returned faithfully to Roderich's side. He looked more dishevelled than Matt had ever seen him, but also a lot happier. He even joked a little with Gilbert as the German groaned and growled, having his gunshot wound tended to by Laura while Lars held him still. Feliciano had awoken briefly, but now he lay sleeping on Ludwig's lap. Ludwig sat back, watching Gilbert's fussing as he gently stroked Feliciano's head. Lovino suddenly had a surplus of energy and was chatting animatedly to Eduard and Raivis—who both looked tired—regaling them with his battle experience. He and Antonio tag-teamed the storytelling, both loud and bright-eyed, until Berwald's stern voice called: "If you've got enough energy to talk a-mile-a-minute, then you've got enough energy to help with the launch." Tino stood at the bow, testing the water; the wind; the weather; setting a course. Matt wouldn't have guessed him a sailor, but the two Scandinavians took to the water like they were born to it. Antonio rolled his eyes dramatically as he pulled a grumbling Lovino off to help them. As they did, Matt saw Antonio catch Francis' eye and smile cryptically; Francis nodded and returned it. Al helped Matt lift Francis down into the boat, then he and the Frenchman settled down on the deck beside Mikkel and Bjørn. Bjørn was awake, but barely. He was snuggled beneath Mikkel's protective arm, using the Dane's broad chest as a pillow. His violet eyes sparkled in the sunlight as he smiled at Matt. "Well done," he said simply. Matt smiled proudly. "Thank-you," he said,_ for everything_. Al and Arthur found a place on-deck beside Matt and Francis; Al and Matt sat shoulder-to-shoulder. Al and Arthur hadn't let go of each other's hand, even though they were now sitting. Both seemed to be elsewhere in their minds—elsewhere together, maybe—as Feliks tried to talk to them. Eventually, Toris shushed him, incurring the Pole's inexhaustible chattering onto himself.

Matt breathed in deeply, smiling as the boat launched. The salt breeze tugged gently at his hair, taking them all away from the massive burning structure that had once been the Birdcage. It had only been a few months, a season since he had been brought here, but it felt like a lifetime ago. _Where will we go_? _What will we do now_? he thought absently, but he didn't really care. As long as the four of them could be together—he and Francis and Al and Arthur—he didn't care where they ended up.

"Mathieu?" Francis said softly.

In reply, Matt kissed him. He loved kissing Francis.

Francis fell asleep soon after (most people did). Matt shifted and leant comfortably against Al, hugging his Magnus close, and rested his head on his brother's shoulder. He loved this—being surrounded by everyone he loved. Even though they were tired and injured; even though they had nowhere to go, no future to pursue; even though they were coveted commodities, Matt felt knew that there was nowhere on earth he would rather be.

"Hey, Mattie?" Al said quietly.

Matt murmured, then cracked open one eye. It was dark, now. "Yeah?"

Al bopped his head gently against Matt's. "I told you it'd be okay. I promised, didn't I? And I always keep my promises."

He was grinning. Matt looked from Arthur in Al's arms, to Francis in his. And he smiled.

"I never doubted you."

* * *

**THE END**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **I have no excuse for not finishing this story two years ago. I'm sorry.


End file.
